AN 

AMERICAN'S 

LONDON 

LOUISE  CLOSSER  HALE 


•ADAYFOR^TOIL-^wNHOUP^ 
•FORi^PORTc^  BUT  FOR;A 
FRIEND  -LIFE  IS  TOO-3HORT 


l\  ^M^-^' 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 
By  LOUISE  CLOSSER  HALE 


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in  2008  with  funding  from 

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AN  AMERICAN'S 
LONDON 


BY 

LOUISE  CLOSSER  HALE 

ILLUSTRATED 


HARPER    &    BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 
NEW  YORK  AND   LONDON    -    MCMXX 


M^^ 


An  American's  London 


Copyright,  1920,  by  Harper  &  Brothers 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 

Published  September,  1920 

u-v 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

On  Combing  January  Seas Frontispiece 

"This   Maisonette   Has   the   Charm    of   Being   in 

Chelsea" Facing  p.    88 

"Spring,  Your  Lordship,  Spring!" "       210 

Country  Inns  and  Joy-rides — History  Without  Any 

Strain  on  the  Intellect "       238 

Country  Places  That  Could  Be  Reached  by  Tltbe  "       280 

The  River,  Which,  of  Course,  Means  the  Thames   .  ' '       318 

Going  Straight  onto  Mauveish  Moors *'       324 

"If  It  Should  Rain!" \    .    .  "       328 


AN  AMERICAN'S 
LONDON 


AN    AMERICAN'S 
LONDON 


Chapter  I 


New  York. 


BUT  I  love  him!" 
This  is  no  way  to  begin  a  travel  book ;  a 
traveling  to  England  and  a  staying  there  in 
the  cold  of  their  adored  spring.  Yet  it  is  this  cry 
which  is  driving  me  away  from  all  the  comforts  of  a 
country  to  one  that  is  supposed  to  be  suffering  from 
the  lack  of  them. 

It  is  not  my  loving  him  that  sends  me  off  on  comb- 
ing Januaiy  seas;  frankly,  if  I  were  in  love  with 
"him,"  whatever  him  he  may  be,  I  should  not  go 
away  at  all.  I  might  pretend  that  I  would,  and 
advise  others  to  do  so,  but  when  the  time  came  I 
should  hang  around  his  club  door,  hoping  for  one  more 
look  at  him.     Oh,  I  know  us! 

Still — in  the  words  of  the  English,  whose  shores  I 
am  about  to  visit — I  am  "fed  up"  with  Cora's  com- 
plaint. A  girl  with  a  name  as  sophisticated  as  hers 
ought  to  be  able  to  take  care  of  herself,  and  not  get 
so  deeply  into  the  mire  of  love  that  she  has  to  drop 
in  every  morning  after  my  breakfast,  and  sometimes 
before  breakfast  •  (and  axioms  come  hard  before 
coffee),  to  ask  me  for  a  thought  to  hold  on  to  that 
she  might  get  through  the  day. 

I  always  give  her  a  thought.  I  tell  her,  for  in- 
stance,   that   a   man    who    would    ogle    a    strange 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

woman  over  his  fiancee's  shoulder  in  a  restaurant 
would  cause  her  worse  misery  after  she  married 
him;  that  discovering  him  in  these  tricks  now  is  a 
pure  gift  from — I  said  Venus,  for  Cora  thinks  she 
is  a  pagan,  although  a  member  of  the  Baptist  Church. 

"How  fortunate  that  you  are  able  to  read  him 
aright  before  it  is  too  late,"  I  console. 

"Unghuh!"  sniffs  Cora. 

"Now  you  know  his  base  self,  and  when  you  find 
that  a  man  is  base  his  fascination  must  sooner  or 
later  become  a  poor,  mean  thing." 

"That's  right,"  gulps  the  advised. 

"Then  go  through  the  day,"  I  said,  "with  a  singing 
of  thanksgiving  in  your  heart  that  soon  you  will  be 
out  of  bondage  to  him." 

It  is  always  at  the  end  of  such  thoughts  for  the  day 
which  I  offer  Cora  that  she  pipes  up  with : 

"But  I  love  him!" 

On  this  especial  morning  in  January  I  was  about 
to  turn  on  her  and  shout  out  that  I  was  sick  of  love — 
hers  and  everybody  else's — that  a  woman  of  forty 
standing  with  reluctant  feet  which  pointed  toward 
fifty  had  found  out  ways  to  keep  her  interested  other 
than  listening  for  the  door-bell,  telephone,  letter- 
carrier,  and  all  such  modern  means  which  pleasantly 
torture  us  in  the  absence  of  the  loved  but  distrusted 
one.  This  speech,  if  fiercely  delivered,  would  prob- 
ably break  our  friendship  and  I  could  then  go  happily 
out  into  the  highways  and  byways  of  life,  where,  of 
course,  I  would  find  no  evidence  of  hymeneal  pursuits. 

It  is  as  well,  perhaps,  that  the  telephone-bell  rang 
before  I  had  an  opportunity  of  cutting  the  Gordian 
knot  following  upon  Cora's,  "But  I  love  him."  She 
is  not  entirely  a  fool,  and  she  might  have  asked  why 


AN   AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

I  waited  until  I  was  my  present  age  to  hand  out  this 
sort  of  stuff — she  is  a  slangy  girl — why  I  had  not 
preached  this  in  my  youth  instead  of  taking  up  at 
fifteen  with  a  very  young  man  whom  I  so  adored  that 
I  walked  home  from  parties  with  my  knees  bent — 
that  he  could  the  more  comfortably  keep  his  arm  in 
a  horizontal  position  around  my  waist. 

This  would  have  been  embarrassing,  for  I  would 
have  had  no  adequate  reply  beyond  untruthfully 
regretting  that  wisdom  had  not  come  to  me  earlier 
in  life — at  which  Cora  would  have  sniffed. 

However,  Clotho,  Atropos,  Lachesis,  or  whichever 
of  the  Three  Fates  had  my  case  in  charge,  rang  the 
telephone-bell,  and  as  we  were  in  my  room  Cora  did 
not  plunge  for  the  receiver. 

The  message  was  the  answer  to  my  prayer  for 
surcease  from  love — snappy  over  the  wire — one,  two, 
three,  four,  five  words:  ''Want  to  go  to  London?" 
vibrated  at  me. 

I  could  then  and  there  have  put  down  the  receiver 
and  said  to  Cora,  ''I  am  offered  a  job  by  a  theatrical 
manager  to  go  to  London  to  play,"  and  if  she  had 
asked  why  it  mightn't  have  been  a  publisher  sending 
me  across  to  do  a  book  I  would  have  replied  that  a 
publisher,  or  his  representative,  took  infinite  leisure 
over  such  arrangements.  He  enjoys  (appears  to 
enjoy)  the  preliminaries,  and  probably  charges  them 
to  the  firm.  After  an  exchange  of  courtesies  he  would 
have  suggested  that  if  I  had  any  time  for  tea,  or  if 
not  tea,  for  lunch  at  the  Brevoort,  it  would  be  very 
pleasant,  as  he  hadn't  seen  me  for  a  long  time.  If  the 
firm  was  very  business-like  he  might  end  up  with 
some  such  definite  offer  as,  "Are  you  fond  of  trans- 
atlantic travel  in  January?" 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

My  reply  over  the  telephone  was  not  that  of  the 
Complete  Actress,  who  would  inunediately  have 
responded,  "Yes,"  and  then  regretted  that  she  had 
not  shown  more  indifference  with  a  view  to  raising 
her  salary.  My  life  had  become  tinged  with  a  writer's 
reserve,  or  at  least  with  a  reserve  of  one  who  tries  to 
write  and  who,  so  far  as  the  printed  word  measures  a 
writer,  has  succeeded  beyond  her  own  wildest  ex- 
pectations. I  never  see  a  book  of  mine  without 
wondering  how  ever  I  could  have  managed  it!  Still, 
playing  in  London  would  mean  an  escape  from  the 
Coras  of  life,  and  I  admitted  that  I  should  like  to 
talk  it  over.  And  at  this  there  was  no  intimation  of 
food  to  be  offered  me  at  any  time.  I  was  just  to  come 
over  to  the  office  immediately  and  ''walk  right 
through."  They  mean  business  when  you  ''walk 
right  through." 

Business  for  me,  but  not  for  those  anxious  ones 
gathered  in  the  waiting-room  through  whom  you 
walk — over  whom  you  walk — your  entrance  into  the 
inner  office  meaning  the  exit  of  all  those  of  your  type 
who  stand  without  the  gate. 

"Many  are  called,  but  few  are  chosen,"  cried  one  of 
my  shabby  contemporaries.  She  nodded  cheerfully, 
but  I  knew  the  bitterness  of  her  cup.  I  have  tasted 
of  it  myself. 

The  sight  of  those  men  and  women — waiting — wait- 
ing— never  ceases  to  appal  me.  For  years  I  was  one 
of  those  w^ho  gather  in  the  outer  offices,  and  when  I 
am  an  older  woman  I  may  be  one  of  those  again. 
"Learn  a  trade!"  I  want  to  cry  to  those  waiting 
women.  "Sew,  tat,  cook,  write  bad  stories,  but  de- 
velop some  other  means  of  making  money,  however 
slight.     Don't    go    through    life    feeling    that    your 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

bread  and  butter  depends  solely  upon  the  favor  of 
the  theatrical  office-boy." 

But  they  will  not  learn  a  trade,  and  they  furbish 
up  their  finery  and  each  morning  make  the  weary 
round  of  managerial  offices.  We  of  the  theater 
know  the  tragedy  of  Broadway.  I  wonder  the  visitor 
to  New  York  can  find  a  charm  in  that  wide,  sparkling 
street.  Must  they  not  hear  the  footfalls  of  those 
many  thousands  on  the  treadmill — does  not  the 
weight  of  heavy  hearts  unconsciously  make  sight- 
seeing a  burden?  It  doesn't  seem  so.  The  buses 
for  the  strangers  trundle  their  freight,  the  barker 
calls  through  the  megaphone,  "This  is  the  Rialto 
where  the  actresses  walk  up  and  down."  The  visitors 
laugh — and  stare  at  us  in  search  of  work. 

When  I  had  ''walked  right  through"  I  was  in 
another  office — not  yet  the  "holy  of  hohes,"  but  one 
full  of  those  who  had  also  been  invited  to  share  my 
privilege  or  who,  with  more  courage  than  the  other 
waiting  ones,  had  pushed  their  way  in  and  were 
keeping  their  eye  on  the  closed  door  where  un- 
doubtedly sat  some  splendid  god.  Typists  were 
rattling  madly  on  their  machines,  the  office-boy  (with 
two  sets  of  manners,  one  for  the  outer  and  one  for  the 
inner  rooms)  ran  about  accomplishing  nothing;  vari- 
ous attaches  of  different  theaters  tore  around  in  the 
squirrel-cage,  and  the  whole  effect  of  "big  business" 
served  to  reduce  the  timid  artist  to  an  insignificant 
creature  which  the  manager  could  do  entirely  without. 

Indeed,  if  the  sensitive  player  does  not  stop  to 
analyze  this  senseless  confusion,  he  begins  to  feel 
that  not  only  can  they  do  without  him,  but  without 
aU  artists — that  plays  can  be  freely  acted  by  the 
managers,  the  stenographers,  and  the  bill-posters,  and 

5 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

unless  they  cut  thcii'  salaries  immediately  this  new 
order  of  things  will  be  put  through.  For  these  mo- 
ments before  the  Zero  Hour  it  may  be  well  to  bear  in 
mind  that  the  playhouse  would  go  on  if  the  actor 
wrote  his  own  plays,  sold  his  own  tickets,  beat  his 
own  drum,  painted  his  own  scenery,  and  rang  his 
curtain  up  and  down  himself.  Every  element  that 
goes  to  make  up  a  production  can  be  dispensed  with 
except  the  actor  himself.  And  he  would  not  be  with- 
out an  audience,  for,  while  all  the  appendages  of  the 
present-day  performance  were  in  the  earliest  periods 
of  history  entirely  lacking,  the  mimic  art  was — rsome- 
how  or  other — expressed  to  a  public  seeking  this  form 
of  diversion. 

I  wondered — ^to  give  myself  courage,  no  doubt — 
how  long  certain  theatrical  firms,  who  are  looked  upon 
by  the  little  unbusiness-like  people  with  whom  they 
traffic  as  marvels  of  astuteness,  would  last  if  com- 
peting in  Wall  Street  against  the  able  minds  of 
those  large,  quiet,  courteous  offices.  I  maintain  they 
would  find  themselves  entangled  in  the  clauses  of 
the  first  contract  drawn  up  by  the  Wall  Street  gentle- 
men, caught  by  little  cunning  traps  such  as  they  had 
never  thought  to  set  for  the  simple-minded  player. 
Since  they  do  business  largely  with  men  and  women 
who  couldn't  learn  Double  Entry  in  a  lifetime,  they 
are  acknowledged  by  us  to  be  masters  of  high  finance. 
No  one  has  found  them  out — but  me— and  if  they 
read  this  I  am  lost!  Yet  they  will  not  read  it — there 
is  no  possibility  of  a  play  in  this  rambling  discussion 
upon  English  life  from  which  I  seem  at  present  far 
removed. 

Once  beyond  the  door  where  the  god  sits  the 
amenities  of  life  are  resumed.    Hands  are  shaken,  a 

6 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

chair  is  offered,  a  baby  photograph  is  displayed, 
soUcitude  on  my  part  is  shown  for  the  welfare  of 
wives.  He  is  not  a  god  at  all,  but  a  very  decent  sort 
of  a  fellow,  and  I  wonder  why  I  was  making  in- 
cendiary speeches  against  the  whole  regime  a  few 
moments  ago.  Managerial  charm  is  creeping  over 
me.  Moreover,  as  one  becomes  a  part  of  that  manage- 
ment, and  about  to  play  under  it,  one  becomes  par- 
tizan  to  their  cause. 

I  hope  I  am  going  to  be  strong  when  "Now,  as 
to  salary,"  begins.  But  I  feel  I  am  not  going  to  be 
— that  it  would  not  be  pally  to  ask  for  too  much. 
We  are  now  pals.  Besides,  I  want  to  go  to  London. 
That  is  the  worst  of  the  actor.  What  he  wants  to  do 
is  always  overcoming  what  he  ought  to  do,  and  he 
grows  so  bored  with  business  technicalities  that  he 
will  sign  anything.  It  was  after  I  had  shaken  hands 
again  and  gone  out  that  the  arguments  I  should  have 
advanced  came  limping  up  like  a  delayed  relief  party : 
the  cost  of  high  living,  the  income  tax,  the  cold  of 
English  theaters,  and,  perhaps,  the  loneliness. 

I  returned  to  the  little  room  in  my  club  and  looked 
about  me.  Well,  he  had  said  one  thing  truly,  and 
gently,  "You  have  nothing  now  to  keep  you  over 
here."  No,  nothing  to  keep  me  over  here  or  over 
there,  nor  the  necessity  of  anything  in  life  but  a 
branch  to  perch  upon.  "Sur  la  Branche"  indeed. 
In  a  passion  of  abnegation  which  has  brought  me 
more  pleasure  than  discomfort,  my  home  is  let  to 
strangers  while  I  have  worked  for  the  war.  They 
are  kind  strangers  who  speak  of  the  happy  spirits 
which  seem  to  penetrate  the  rooms.  Two  spirits. 
Let  the  gentle  wraiths  stay  on  in  those  sunny  rooms, 
but  the  body  of  one  must  go  about  the  earth  for  a  little 
2  7 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

while  longer  and  find  a  reason  for  enduring.  Not 
only  a  reason,  but  a  joy  in  enduring.  Once  when  I 
was  young  I  wrote,  ''There  is  nothing  sadder  than  a 
full  moon  shining  upon  a  spinster."  That  was  wrong: 
one  must  learn  to  love  the  moon  for  its  own  beauty, 
not  for  the  young  man  it  is  shining  upon.  I  expect 
some  spinsters  have  found  that  out,  but  I  am  sure 
they  had  to  work  for  it. 

Still,  when  once  grasped,  the  moon  will  not  go  back 
on  us — which  the  young  man  is  apt  to  do  at  any 
moment.  Cora's  orbit  this  month  will  be  very  pale 
and  largely  eclipsed  by  her  woe.  She  will  find  some, 
later,  beautifully  soft  and  mellow,  and  again  they 
will  fail  her  because  ''he"  is  not  there.  But  there 
is  one  thing  I  am  certain  of:  my  man  must  be  in 
the  moon — no  nearer — for  real  complacency.  That 
attribute  is  not  for  the  young,  but  I  find  it  an  easy 
word,  like  old  slippers  when  we  come  home  from  the 
dance.  I  claim  it  for  the  woman  of  forty — we  have 
got  to  have  something  all  our  own! 

My  name  was  cabled  to  England  to  see  if  the  war- 
time powers  approved  of  it,  and  Britain  roared  no 
protest.  Yet,  ere  I  went  down  to  that  grim  finahty, 
the  Passport  Building,  I  found  my  feet  straying  auto- 
matically to  the  office  of  my  War  Relief.  Strange, 
how  in  eighteen  months  a  sense  of  obligation  greater 
than  any  mere  necessity  of  earning  your  living  comes 
to  one!  In  my  small  partitioned  office  I  gazed  re- 
flectively at  the  desk-chair  in  which  I  had  so  often 
writhed  with  uncertainty.  Fear  for  my  imperfect 
judgment!  Fear  for  improper  administration  of  the 
offerings  of  others!  Fear  that  I  could  not  appear 
with  dignity  in  meeting  my  appointments  for  the  day! 
Trying  to  inject  into  my  work  a  love  for  it  sufficient 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

to  make  up  for  my  shortcomings;  trying,  above  all 
things,  to  keep  in  mind  the  men  for  whom  we  were 
working  that  we  might  not  swamp  their  dear  interests 
in  proud  executive  accomplishment. 

Invention  during  this  period  had  left  me.  Only 
lame  stories  came  from  my  pen  in  those  few  leisure 
hours  I  had  for  writing.  The  wolf,  having  no  door  of 
mine  to  howl  outside  of,  followed  me  in  the  streets 
snapping  at  my  heels.  Yet  I  could  not  lay  down  my 
unremunerative  occupation  had  not  this  departure 
been  encouraged,  insisted  upon  by  those  with  whom 
I  worked.  The  fingers  of  war  had  clutched  me  by  the 
throat  and  I  had  grown  accustomed  to  them.  I  found 
in  them  a  sustaining  force,  and  some  other  than  my- 
self must  loosen  their  fierce  grip. 


Chapter  II 

New  York. 

I  HAD  begun  to  get  my  digestion  out  of  order  with 
positively  my  last  farewell  dinner  before  my  pass- 
port came. 

It  is  hard  to  tell  why  you  feel  distinctly  embarrassed 
when  the  usual  ten  days  have  elapsed  and  this  certif- 
icate of  a  decent  life  has  not  arrived.  You  put  on 
a  jesting  air  when  yom-  friends  question  you  and  tell 
them,  ''You  don't  want  it  generally  known,  but  you're 
a  German."  Away  down  in  your  heart  you  are  won- 
dering if  the  government  has  found  out  anything 
about  you,  or  your  family,  that  you  didn't  know 
yourself — or  any  mild  escapade  that  you  had  known, 
but  had  never  told  a  soul.  You  cut  across  the  street 
to  avoid  members  of  the  company  who  have  already 
received  their  little  green  books.  They  have  a  smug, 
settled  look  which  is  irritating.  You  stare  at  boots 
in  a  window,  wavering  in  your  intention  to  buy  an 
extra  pair  for  England.  Some  one  has  sent  you  a 
steamer-rug,  when  you  get  home,  and  its  stern, 
rectangular  plaids  are  looking  you  squarely  in  the 
face.  ''Do  I  return  to  Scotland  or  do  I  not?"  it  asks. 
Toward  the  end  the  management  becomes  anxious, 
calling  up  daily  to  ask  for  news.  There  is  no  evasion 
about  a  passport.  You  either  have  it  or  haven't  it. 
It  would  be  the  only  lie  you  would  be  sure  to  be 
caught  in. 

"Funny!"  grumbled  the  manager  over  the  'phone. 

10 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

''All  of  those  with  foreign  blood  got  theirs  im- 
mediately." 

''Glad  to  get  them  out  of  the  country,"  I  replied, 
trying  to  be  jaunty.   ''They  want  to  keep  me/" 

"Yah!"  He  hung  up.  He  didn't  seem  to  care 
whether  he  kept  me  or  not.  I  was  wanting  most 
awfully  to  go  to  London. 

I  had  my  passport  by  late  evening.  Goaded  by  the 
managerial  "Yah,"  I  called  up  Washington  on  the 
long-distance  and  flung  myself  upon  the  mercies  of 
a  delightful  creature  whom  I  would  deem  to  be  de- 
lightful even  had  he  refused  to  assist  me.  There  was 
no  reason  why  he  should  put  on  his  military  cap  and 
go  over  to  the  Passport  Office  "for  such  a  worm  as  I." 
There  was  no  reason  why  he  should  feel  kindly  toward 
me.  A  crowd  had  laughed  at  him  and  I  had  occa- 
sioned it.  A  fortnight  before  he  had  come  up  from 
Washington  to  a  private  showing  of  a  moving  picture 
in  one  of  those  down-town  buildings  where  little  pro- 
jecting-rooms,  all  along  in  a  row,  are  rented  for  such 
occasions.  I  nabbed  him  as  he  came  along  the  pubhc 
hall,  for  in  my  pride  over  my  own  War  Relief  feature- 
film,  it  never  occurred  to  me  that  he  could  come  a 
distance  to  see  any  other.  The  picture  was  being  run 
and  he  stoopingly  made  his  way  through  the  darkness 
to  a  front  seat.  Our  story  unreeled  itself.  Our 
greatest  American  stage  director  appeared  upon  the 
screen.  His  priest-like  mien  and  recognized  white 
collar  received  a  fine  burst  of  applause.  Upon  the 
white  sheet  he  was  directing  a  drama  within  a  drama. 

The  major  peered  at  me  through  the  blackness. 
His  voice  traveled.  "Are  these  the  Armenian  atroci- 
ties?" he  timidly  asked. 

Yet,  even  after  that,  over  a  clear  wire  came  the 

11 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

answer  from  him  that  my  passport  had  been  snowed 
under  and  was  now  shoveled  out  and  on  its  registered, 
controlled  way.  At  the  instigation  of  my  management, 
now  thoroughly  humbled,  I  was  then  besought  to 
ask  of  him  a  search  for  the  remaining  reluctant  per- 
mit of  the  company.  And  this  was  accomplished. 
One  would  think  that  a  man  entering  upon  official 
life  would  put  a  cheerful  sign  over  his  door,  ''I  am 
without  friends,"  and  pursue  his  duties  with  compara- 
tive ease.  Yet  I  notice  that  it  is  the  busiest  men  who 
are  most  importuned  and  who  find  time — make  time 
— for  kindnesses.  A  member  of  the  Morgan  firm 
will  write  a  letter  of  recommendation  for  an  eighteen- 
doUar-a-week  stenographer,  but  such  a  request  will  lie 
unnoticed  on  the  desk  of  a  woman  who  has  no  pursuit 
but  that  of  getting  through  the  day. 

Sometirues  she  neither  writes  nor  reads.  Recently 
in  a  fashionable  hotel  I  saw  two  well-clad  women  renew 
an  old  friendship.  ''I  wrote  you  three  weeks  ago," 
reproached  one. 

''Oh  my  goodness!  Did  you?  I  open  my  letters 
only  about  once  a  month,"  the  other  actually  ex- 
plained. 

The  friendship  was  not  getting  along  very  well 
when  I  left  them. 

Now  the  passport  is  here,  the  British  consul  has 
approved  it  and  I  have  sat  in  a  row  with  soiled  Greeks 
at  the  Custom  House,  waiting  for  my  dock-pass. 
And  all  of  a  sudden  I  don't  want  to  go  to  London! 

Why  must  one  seek  strange  adventm-es  in  ill- 
heated  lands  when  one  can  sit  by  the  steam-radiator 
and  reflect  comfortably  upon  more  enlivening  ex- 
periences that  have  passed!     Wliat  is  memory  for  if 

not  to  spare  us  the  physical  effort  of  new  exploits? 

12 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

Why  the  mind's  eye  if  not  to  fill  it  with  past  visions? 
Countless  pleasant  happenings  can  be  recalled;  there 
was  the  season  you  made  the  hit  in  that  light  comedy 
— it  was  a  splendid  year — your  clothes  fitted  you,  and 
you  always  just  caught  a  car  and  never  just  missed 
them.  It  was  spring,  too.  There  was  that  young 
man  ('way,  'way  back,  of  course)  who  wanted  to  die 
for  you — but  was  persuaded  not  to.  There  was  the 
one  you  reformed,  and  who  never  drinks  heavily  even 
to  this  day  without  speaking  freely  to  everybody  on 
the  street  of  yoiu*  goodness.  There  was  the  year  you 
sold  everything  you  wrote.  And  could  not  lunch 
without  magazine  editors,  because  you  had  enough 
work,  anyway !  For  me  there  were  many  lands  already 
visited  to  reflect  upon:  glittering  Tunis,  Taormina 
faint  \vith  beauty,  soft  Tuscany,  the  Tyrol  and  its 
good  coffee,  grim  Spain,  the  white  roads  of  France, 
the  singing  birds  of  the  Old  Dominion,  the  drooping 
elms  of  New  England,  the  vast  quiet  of  the  Grand 
Caiion. 

I  settled  down  in  my  chair — deep  down  for  deeper 
thought.  Why  had  I  not  appreciated  before  this 
great  heritage!  When  it  seemed  for  a  time  that  my 
Ufe  was  dismembered  I  had  figured  myself  poor  in 
any  kind  of  goods  from  which  one  could  derive  profit. 
It  had  come  to  me  as  curious  that  more  had  not  been 
translated  from  those  wide  travels  into  a  definite 
moneyed  crystallization.  With  us  two  we  saw  a  coun- 
try and  paid  for  the  seeing.  I  had  thought  from  time 
to  time  we  paid  a  great  deal  for  all  we  saw.  I  had 
been  left  without  the  protection  which  money  can 
buy,  and  once  or  twice  in  my  enforced  elimination 
of  the  few  luxuries  which  myself  and  one  other  had 

sliared,  I  felt  unshielded  from  the  world. 

13 


AN  AMERICAN  S  LONDON 

Now,  in  my  small  rented  room,  philosophizing  from 
the  depths  of  my  chair,  I  could  have  clapped  my  hands 
with  joy  at  my  discovery.  I  was  the  richest  of  women. 
Provision  had  been  made  by  these  happy  wanderings 
for  a  life  of  luxury  for  my  inner  self.  I  would  never 
be  poor  or  lonesome — nor  would  the  mental  retina 
be  empty  of  pictures.  It  was  the  greatest  of  all 
dowering.  The  daily  meals  for  the  physical  creature 
were  the  slight  instances  of  life  which  I  knew  could 
always  be  managed.  I  breathed  happily.  I  would 
not  go  to  London.  I  would  stay  at  home  and  rest. 
And  begin  reflecting  to-night — upon  that  jaunt  in 
the  Pyrenees,  perhaps.    Then  to-morrow  night — 

The  sudden  bounding  into  mechanical  life  of 
many  engines  in  the  street  below  brought  me  to  a 
realization  of  other  motor-cars  than  a  small  ghost 
roadster  which  wound  around  far  mountains.  I  arose 
and  looked  down  upon  the  oblong,  shining  limousine- 
tops — new  roof-trees  for  the  traveling  rich.  Far  up 
the  street  two  of  the  theaters  had  flashed  the  electric 
signal  to  make  ready;  the  engines  labored  and  coughed, 
for  the  night  was  cold;  some  sank  into  rest  again.  The 
whir  of  the  self-starters,  with  that  irritating  sugges- 
tion of  chance  response,  brought  hoots  of  derision 
from  the  chauffeurs.  The  cars  in  action  wheeled  out 
and  ahead  of  those  so  retarded. 

Husky-voiced,  shabby  men  were  now  running  along 

the  pavement  and  in  and  out  among  the  cars,  calling 

their  numbers  in  the  hope  of  a  chance  quarter.     It 

was  a  method  of  livelihood  pursued  only  from  custom. 

The   figures   ^hone   out   brightly   from   the   electric 

carriage-call  over  the  theater.     One  wretch  clung  to 

the  running-board  of  a  great  machine.    ''Get  down, 

you  coke  fiend !' '  yelled  the  driver.   The  wretch  stepped 

14 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

down.  He  was  too  thoroughly  a  victim  of  cocaine  even 
to  curse. 

I  myself  was  contemptuous  of  him.  He  was  of 
those  who  shrugged  off  realities  to  live  the  more 
easily  among  dreams.  My  brain  made  a  little  zig- 
zag— quite  tangible — I  could  have  drawn  its  course 
with  a  pencil.  He  lived  among  dreams — a  cowardly 
way  of  getting  out,  wasn't  it,  then,  this  dear  dreaming? 
His  physical  Ufe,  starved  for  beauty,  made  an  effort 
to  create  images  of  loveliness — we  were  not  unlike. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door  and  one  of  those 

women  I  love  came  in.    Why  do  we  love  one  friend 

more  than  another?    This  one  was  not  beautiful  and 

few  thought  her  clever.    She  read  but  little.    She  was 

not  industrious  and  slept  late  always.     I   think  I 

love  her  because  she  is  good,  and  her  values  of  life 

are  incomparable — and  she  acts  beautifully.     I  love 

her  because  we  were  together  when  war  was  declared 

and  when  the  armistice  was  signed,  and  were  together 

over  the  death-bed  of  a  friend.    There  was  something 

about  her  those  three  times  as  though  her  soul  had 

come  out  where  her  face  generally  was  and  her  rugged 

features  were  all  effaced.     For  she  was  very  shiny 

and  beautiful.     Then,  again,  she  leads  a  sedate  life, 

as  though  she  prefers  it,  but  she  once  cried:     ''Is 

there  no  man  in  this  world  who  can  care  for  me? 

I  don't  ask  anything  honorable  of  him — ^just  that  he 

will  care  for  me!"  But  she  never  spoke  like  that  again, 

and  went  on  living  dully,  her  clear  understanding  not 

impaired  by  rancor.     Not  hard  on  others  who  were 

loved.    Perhaps  these  are  some  of  the  reasons  why  I 

care  so  much  for  her.    Small  reason  I  had  to  care  for 

her  that  night  if  I  was  to  pursue  a  cocainized  future! 

You  had  a  way  of  telling  her  things — possibly  because 

If) 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

she  didn't  come  back  at  you  with  things  of  her  own 
to  tell.  I  unfolded  my  beautiful  plan  for  future 
diversion  on  an  earth  that  must  be  lonely. 

She  sat  down  firmly  in  a  chair  with  her  hands  on 
her  knees — not  graceful  at  all — and  spoke  squarely 
at  me: 

''Something  like  a  cow  ruminating  as  it  chews  its 
cud." 

"A  cow?" 

''Except  that  you  can't  count  on  the  cud,  or  the 
fields  in  which  to  chew." 

"There  are  pastures,"  with  dignity,  from  me. 

"Whose?" 

"My  friends  have  many  acres." 

"I  wasn't  brought  up  in  metaphor.  I  suppose  you 
mean  flats,  houses,  or  country  places?" 

"Well— yes." 

"You'll  be  an  acquisition  to  a  dinner-party."  She 
was  undoubtedly  sneering  at  me. 

"Why  not?    I  can  share  my  experiences." 

She  yawned.  "I  know  them — the  'has-beens.' 
'When  I  was  in  Calcutta — the  moonlight  at  River- 
side with  the  golden  fruit — once  I  saw  Vesuvius  in 
eruption — '     Great  Scott!" 

I  spoke.    "But  don't  you  see  my  life  is  finished?" 

Her  laugh  in  a  way  was  gratifying.  "Do  you  re- 
member that  American  woman  in  France  who  felt 
her  life  was  over,  and  that  she  must  give  way  for  the 
younger  generation  for  there  was  no  more  room  for 
her  in  God's  plan?  So  she  moved  to  a  little  house  in 
the  Marne  Valley.  That  was  in  July,  1914.  Then 
the  troops  began  coming  through  and  she  found  in 
her  enormous  activities  that  God  had  just  begun  with 
her — the  book  publishers  had  just  begun  with  her, 

16 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

too,  incidentally.  Small  chance  she  has  these  days 
to  ruminate,  although  cud  is  in  plenty  for  her  now 
and  she  doesn't  have  to  borrow  a  pasture  to  chew  in, 
either!" 

The  last  motor  went  honking  up  the  street,  the 
thumping  of  my  steam  pipe  prefaced  its  retirement. 
The  night  outside  grew  darker,  for  the  illuminated 
signs  were  being  flipped  off  by  unseen  hands,  but  the 
looms  of  the  city,  weaving  the  destiny  of  those  four 
millions,  went  on.  We  never  stop  growing,  never  stop 
growing,  never  stop  growing — old!  I  reflected. 

She  moved  to  the  window — a  step  in  my  congested 
quarters.  ''Look  at  this  black  world.  By  some  ter- 
rible privilege  you  and  I  were  dumped  down  on  earth 
in  these  awful  times.  They  are  not  over  yet;  some- 
times I  get  discouraged  and  think  they  have  just 
begun.  I  believed  when  peace  was  virtually  declared 
that  immediately  everything  would  shake  down  and 
we'd  be  comfortable  once  more — " 

' '  I  know,"  I  interrupted.  ' '  I  even  learned  a  verse  to 
recite  at  parties;  it  is  all  about  rest  after  peace.  It 
runs :  '  Oh,  days  of  ease ;  oh,  honeyed  nights  of  sleep ! ' " 

'''Honeyed  nights  of  sleep!'  Good  God!  I  am 
worrying  over  that  League  of  Nations  so  I  can't  close 
my  eyes.    Aren't  they  going  to  take  in  Russia?" 

"Yes;  aren't  they?"  I  echoed,  glad  of  the  diversion 
from  being  scolded. 

But  she  returned  to  her  mouton  and  considered  my 
exclamation  as  a  point  for  herself.  "Now,  you  see! 
Can  you  imagine  two  women  at  the  witching  hour  of 
midnight  talking  of  such  a  subject — having  such  a 
subject  to  talk  about— two  decades  back?  Thank  the 
Lord  you  weren't  forty  years  of  age  sixty  years  ago 
with  nothing  to  do  for  amusement  but  jump  through 

17 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

your  hoop-skirts !  Yet  in  the  midst  of  all  this  you  want 
to  borrow  a  cow-lot  to  lie  down  in  and  think  about 
that  grape-vine  over  the  inn  door  at  Poitiers." 

"I'm  awfully  tired,"  I  muttered,  feeling  sorry  for 
myself. 

She  was  all  for  me  immediately.  "Of  course  you 
are,  but  you  are  not  old  enough  to  stop.  Nobody  can 
stop  now.  There  are  too  many  things  to  be  worked 
out.  Here  we  are  playing  with  a  cut-up  puzzle  and 
but  half  the  picture  made." 

"I'm  not  a  world  power.  I  can't  meddle  with  their 
blamed  jig-saw  mess,"  I  defended. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  are,  and  I  don't  know  what 
I  am,  but  I  know  every  one  of  us  must  try  our  darned- 
est to  finish  the  design.  I  don't  suppose  there  is  even 
a  little  three-cornered  piece  that  it  is  up  to  you  as  an 
individual  to  fit  in.  It  will  be  the  whole  world  strain- 
ing— a  concerted  effort — which  will  complete  the 
picture."  Her  deep  voice  trembled,  again  something 
came  out  through  her  eyes,  and  she  had  not  a  face — 
just  a  starry  look. 

"I  will  go  to  London,  of  course,"  I  assured  her, 
feeling  important  and  belonging  to  the  Peace  Confer- 
ence.  "Besides,  I  have  got  my  living  to  make." 

"That's  the  most  sensible  thing  you've  said.  Buy 
your  own  sunny  pasture,  and  when  you're  an  old 
lady—" 

"Old  cow,"  I  amended. 

"No,  darling,  just  when  you're  old,  really  old,  re- 
view your  sweet  early  dreams  through  the  quiet  day. 
But  this  is  not  the  time  for  going  over  the  past, 
L ,  much  as  we  might  like  to." 

So  I  leaned  over  and  put  a  label  on  my  hat-box — • 
full  of  shoes — and  my  friend  snapped  down  some-> 

18 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

thing  on  the  desk  behind  me  which  I  feared  I  recog- 
nized. 

'^  You're  not  going  to  set  the  world  afire  with  your 
discoveries  in  London.  I  don't  imagine  that  for  a 
moment,  but  you  might  solve  one  question  that 
would  help  one  woman  to  keep  one  hired  girl  one 
week.    My  friends  write  me  it  can't  be  done." 

She  pushed  my  typewriter  toward  me  insinuatingly. 

I  rather  caught  at  the  idea.  ''And  at  the  same  time," 
I  chattered  out,  ''by  this  study  of  social  conditions  I 
can  avoid  the  Cora  complaint." 

It  was  after  the  elevator  had  clanked  its  door  that 
it  occurred  to  me  I  had  heard  her  laughing  in  the 
hall! 


Chapter  III 

On  the  Boat. 

F  you  go  on  board  you  cannot  return/'  a  voice 
had  croaked  at  the  gangway.  Extraordmaiy, 
this  arbitrary  disposition  of  a  woman's  existence 
during  the  period  between  armistice  and  peace!  A 
whole  row  of  gentlemen  on  the  safe  side  of  a  neat 
white  picket-fence  had  already  learned  my  age  and 
my  occupation.  They  had  looked  over  my  pocket- 
book,  and  generously  given  me  clean  bills  for  dirty 
ones. 

"'S'  all  you  got?"  one  had  even  probed. 

^"S'  all,"  I  answered,  taking  a  fierce  joy  in  the 
consciousness  of  a  safety-pocket  around  my  waist 
full  of  very  dirty  money. 

"'J'  want  t'  see  yer  friends  onc't  more?"  pur- 
sued Cerberus,  evidently  having  dealt  with  women 
before. 

"Nope,"  I  answered,  sturdily.  My  friends  had 
been  strictly  forbidden  to  come  near  the  boat.  He 
snapped  the  dock-pass  among  others  belonging  to 
voyagers  who  had  been  equally  cold  to  prolonged 
farewells,  and  I  made  my  way  for  the  twenty-third 
time  in  my  life  toward  my  twenty-third  cabin.  To 
be  honest,  I  should  say  my  forty-fifth  cabin — two  for 
each  voyage — the  forty-sixth  one  to  be  mine  as  soon 
as  the  chief  steward  could  be  approached.  The  hour 
before  sailing  was  no  time  to  traffic  w.ith  that  digni- 

20 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

tary.  Yet  others  were  already  in  his  office;  a  woman 
was  popping  her  eyes  at  him  hke  the  flicking  of  fingers 
into  his  face— in  the  words  of  the  elocutionist,  she 
was  using  force,  not  stress.  ''Come  down  and  see  it 
yom'self.    Come  down,"  she  commanded. 

They  went  below  and  I  appeared  upon  the  upper 
deck  just  in  time  to  view  all  my  cabin  luggage,  which 
was  swaying  in  a  great  net,  disappearing  into  the  hold 
— disappearing  for  the  rest  of  the  voyage.  Tooth- 
brush, candy,  diary,  hair-tonic,  evening  dress  for  the 
last  night,  all,  all  going  down.  I  am  not  a  person  of 
authority,  but  I  have  roared  through  melodramas 
with  some  success. 

"Stop!"  rang  out  upon  the  noisy  air. 

The  bell  of  the  dummy-engine  tinkled  and  the  net 
swayed  uncertainly  above  the  pit.  "Lower  that  to 
the  deck,"  I  commanded,  in  pure  desperation. 

The  hypnotized  stevedore  seized  and  swung  it  from 
the  maw  of  the  open  hatch  and  landed  it  onto  the 
sweet,  safe  floor. 

"What  the"— (a  lot  of  words)— "yer  doin'?"  called 
the  boatswain. 

"Lady  tella  me,"  explained  the  dock-hand,  in- 
dicating my  old  gray  head. 

By  this  time  I  had  a  bill  out  and  was  flapping  it 
at  him  from  above.  No  Barbara  Frietchie  ever  waved 
a  country's  flag  more  appealingly.  "My  cabin  lug- 
gage!" I  shouted.  "Some  fool  mixed  it  up —  Why, 
it's  all  labeled!''  I  was  contracting  a  crowd,  but  audi- 
ences are  encoiu-aged  in  my  life.  The  Italian,  stimu- 
lated by  the  evidences  of  my  wealth,  opened  the  net. 
Others  eager  to  share  with  him  in  doing  good— and 
the  bill — hastened  to  divide  the  spoils,  and  up  they 

came  from  the  lower  deck  to  the  cabin-,  and  I  lay  down 

21 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

in  exhaustion  on  my  bunlc — my  typewriter  in  my 

arms. 

******* 

Our  first  rehearsal  was  held  in  the  state-room  of 
the  director  fifteen  minutes  after  we  were  under  way. 
We  had  been  assured  by  the  management,  left  com- 
fortably behind  in  New  York,  that  we  could  do  all 
our  rehearsing  on  the  boat  and  be  ready  to  burst 
into  a  London  production  upon  landing.  They  argued 
that  it  will  be  pleasanter  than  rehearsing  on  dry  land 
before  leaving,  as  we  don't  have  to  take  subways 
and  buses  and — if  late — taxicabs  in  order  to  meet 
every  day.  In  other  words,  the  manuscript  wasn't 
ready. 

The  idea  of  plunging  into  work  before  we  had 
dropped  the  pilot  probably  originated  from  the  brain 
of  the  director  himself.  We  could  get  some  idea  of 
what  we  were  going  to  do,  and,  afterward,  when  we 
were  confined  to  our  room  with  horrible  seasickness, 
we  could  cheerily  conmait  our  lines.  So  we  sat  huddled 
together,  all  with  an  ache  in  our  hearts,  no  doubt, 
and  mad  to  get  up  and  see  our  majestic  leave-taking 
down  the  harbor  of  our  city;  yet  all  soberly  intent  on 
our  job. 

After  a  while  there  was  a  slackening  of  the  engines, 
and  a  nervous  one  who  had  never  been  to  sea  before 
exclaimed  that  we  were  stopping.  He  looked  relieved 
— I  beheve  he  thought  we  were  going  back.  The 
drama  of  the  play  wavered.  We  were  such  a  lonesome 
little  company  of  Americans,  each  had  a  small  drama 
in  his  life  that  was  probably  quite  as  good  as  any 
plot  ever  given  to  the  public.  Being  Americans,  they 
were  purely  domestic  in  character,  having  to  do  with 
the  wife,  or  a  house  in  the  country  not  yet  paid  for, 

22 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

or  babies  left  behind.  And  dropping  the  pilot  was 
very  definite.    Still  there  was  the  play ! 

''Go  on,"  prodded  the  director.   "You  pick  him  up 

sharply  there,  Mr.  B ,  but  always  the  gentleman, 

of  course." 

The  rehearsal  continued. 

That  night  in  my  cabin  I  disposed  my  effects  with 
a  view  to  lost  motions  should  seasickness  come  again 
to  visit  me.  We  have  long  been  strangers,  but  the 
seasoned  voyager  never  boasts  of  his  imperviousness. 
Personally,  I  have  withstood  the  stormiest  trips  to 
be  violently  ill  in  a  row-boat  bobbing  around  Capri. 
Like  love,  it  comes  when  least  expected,  and, 
as  far  as  I  am  concerned,  like  love  it  is  about  as 
welcome. 

Musing  on  this  brought  Cora  to  my  mind,  upon 
whom  I  had  rained  a  number  of  farewell  gifts  as  though 
to  atone  for  my  desertion  of  her.  She  was  continually 
roused  from  her  heavy-hearted,  at  least,  heavy  slum- 
bers during  the  last  night  of  packing  by  articles 
hurled  against  her  door,  more  in  anger  than  in  sorrow. 
An  electric  iron  thudded,  a  traveling-lamp  crashed, 
cretonne  curtains  flopped,  and  just  before  I  clambered 
into  the  automobile  en  route  to  the  dock  in  the  gray 
of  the  morning  she  received  my  second  steamer-rug. 

''Why  are  you  so  good  to  me?"  she  had  cried,  in  a 
passion  of  teary  gratitude.  I  might  have  told  her — 
but  I  didn't — I  couldn't  get  the  dog-gone  things  in  the 
trunks. 

The  friend  I  love  had  been  with  me  through  the 
earlier  part  of  the  night,  and  if  she  reached  her  hotel 
without  being  blackjacked  it  was  not  for  lack  of  par- 
cels, tempting,  at  least,  in  their  size.  She  has  one  of 
those  charming  qualities  of  the  darky:  a  horror  of 
3  23 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

seeing  anything  thrown  away.  She  spent  the  time 
stooped  over  my  waste-basket,  picking  out  the  des- 
perately discarded.  She  went  home  with  one  balsam 
pillow,  three-quarters  of  a  pound  of  coffee,  one  corset 
with  the  whalebone  removed,  half  a  tin  of  powdered 
milk,  one  eye-cup,  ten  cents'  worth  of  granulated 
sugar  (loose),  and  a  package  of  New  Year's  cards 
unfortunately  defaced  by  the  senders  scrawling  their 
various  names  across  them.  All  of  these  tokens  of  a 
misspent  life  were  tied  together  with  Christmas  rib- 
bons of  various  lengths  and  color.  I  am  not  ungen- 
erous by  nature,  but  as  I  realized  the  capaciousness  of 
my  forty-sixth  cabin  I  began  to  regret  my  prodigality. 
This  may  have  been  occasioned  by  a  chance  conver- 
sation at  dinner  the  first  night  out.  The  English- 
women were  carrying  over  sugars,  woolens,  rubbers, 
glass  tumblers,  linen  tea-towels,  and  all  sorts  of  food- 
stuffs up  to  seventy-nine  pounds,  which  is  the  limit 
for  each  individual.  After  seventy-nine  pounds  you 
become  a  wholesale  lady,  liable  to  duty. 

I  must  learn  more  of  this.  As  a  student  of  social 
economics  I  suppose  I  must  be  wide-awake.  I  hate 
to  be  wide-awake  and  to  improve  my  mind.  I  do 
not  know  whether  I  have  changed  or  whether  the 
fault  is  with  old  tempora  and  mores,  but  with  my  first 
crossings  I  w^as  terrified  that  I  should  not  get  ac- 
quainted with  every  one  on  the  boat — and  now  I  am 
terrified  that  I  may  get  acquainted  with  too  many. 
I  have  found  that  boat  friendships  are,  as  a  rule, 
ephemeral.  We  are  not  drawn  together — we  are 
dashed  together.  Cocktails  in  the  smoking-room, 
boredom  in  the  lounge,  makes  us  talk  to  one  another. 
A  neighborliness  with  the  deck-chairs  around  you  is 
natural,  and  the  results  are  often  happy.    You  may 

24 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

even  remember  whose  cards  are  whose  after  you  have 
been  ashore  a  week. 

But  at  the  tables  you  must  be  friends.  An  American 
has  indeed  bridged  the  gulf  that  separates  us  from 
the  Continent  and  continental  manners  when  he  can 
come  to  his  dinner  on  the  first  night  out  and  bow  to 
the  table.  It  is  easier  for  us  to  sit  down  and  nibble 
away  at  bread,  staring  miserably  into  nothingness, 
than  it  is  for  us  to  enter  into  an  immediate  casual 
conversation  with  the  neighbor  at  our  elbow.  After 
the  second  or  third  day  we  become  very  brash — not 
to  say  intimate — and  want  to  "open  wine"  for  every 
one.  It  is  harder  for  us  to  stick  to  a  happy  medium 
than  the  English,  who  are,  one  might  say,  in  abun- 
dance on  this  boat.  They'll  talk  on  the  first  day  and 
they'll  talk  on  the  last,  but  there  will  be  no  lavish 
manifestation  of  friendship.  Yet,  if  the  spark  should 
develop  with  the  Enghshman,  it  will  not  be  a  quick- 
dying  flame — you'll  get  a  Christmas  card  for  the  rest 
of  your  life,  anyway.  I  received  them  all  through  the 
war  from  a  friend  in  London — cards  specially  designed 
for  the  times.  I  remember  one  humorless  offering 
singing,  "Heigh-ho,  the  green  holly,"  with  a  picture 
of  a  Zeppelin  sailing  over  St.  Paul's.  Brave,  in- 
scrutable people. 

Still,  there  is  good  talk  on  this  boat,  if  one  cares  to 
listen,  and  not  spoil  the  excellence  of  the  thought  by 
becoming  part  of  it.  Big  men  are  going  over  on  big 
missions.  Their  cabins  are  on  the  same  deck  as  mine; 
secretaries  go  in  and  out  of  their  rooms,  two  or  more 
men  with  each  dignitary.  Yet  at  night,  when  the 
boots  are  put  out,  the  millionaires  are  represented 
only  by  a  single  shabby  pair.  No  nonsense  about 
clothes  for  ihem. 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

In  glittering  contrast  is  a  table  of  British  officers 
near  ours  in  the  dining-saloon.  They  wear  their  blue 
dress  uniforms  at  night,  and  sometimes  they  put  on 
mufti,  which  our  men  would  not  be  permitted.  Al- 
though of  different  regiments  the  highest  of  rank 
seems  to  be  in  a  position  to  criticize  any  lack  of 
decorum  among  them.  He  is  a  young  Irish  colonel 
with  a  purely  English  accent.  He  is  a  bit  over  twenty, 
beginning  as  a  subaltern  and  moving  forward  in  a  single 
battle  as  one  by  one  his  superior  officers  were  shot 
down.  I  wanted  to  talk  to  him  of  these  things,  but, 
their  mission  accomplished  in  America,  they  are  so 
eagerly  out  for  fun  I  could  not  speak  of  that  field  of 
dead  friends.  Only  once,  after  he  had  nervously 
sought  out  a  captain  to  advise  him,  for  the  honor  of 
his  country,  to  do  his  spooning  in  private,  did  he 
speak  of  the  burden  of  grave  responsibility.  How, 
on  that  day  when  he  had  taken  command  he  had 
feared  he  had  not  done  the  right  thing,  for  he  had 
ordered  his  men  to  retreat,  and  of  his  boyish  relief 
when,  later,  he  had  been  upheld  in  his  action  by  the 
high  command.  ''I  can  tell  anybody  to  do  anything 
after  that,"  he  completed. 

One  thing  I  have  already  learned — which  is  rather 
a  relief  to  me — I  will  not  find  out  by  asking.  I  must 
get  what  knowledge  will  be  granted  me  in  England 
by  absorption  and,  possibly,  by  experience.  Just 
what  I  am  to  experience  I  don't  know,  and  little 
trickles  of  interest  are  beginning  to  creep  through 
my  frame  like  sap  in  the  trees  when  it's  spring 
again.  I  am  glad  we  are  coming  over  with  the 
New  Year,  when  even  the  oldest  trees  feel  the  stir 
of  life. 

2G 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

Most  of  the  day  has  been  spent  with  the  director 
at  the  long  table  of  the  lower  companionway  where 
the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  secretaries  bring  out  their  little  type- 
writers and  go  through  their  official  business.  My 
typewriter  was  also  in  use,  as  I  laboriously  made  out 
the  lists  for  the  property-man,  the  scene  plots,  and 
the  electrician's  orders  for  lighting  our  play.  We  even 
typed  in  my  blackest  capitals  the  order  for  taking  our 
"bows" — the  order  of  our  curtain-calls  at  the  end  of 
each  act.  These  are  to  be  fastened  to  the  door-frames 
outside  of  each  entrance  to  the  scene  so  that  the 
players  may  consult  it  when  the  dread  first  night  ar- 
rives, and  may  group  themselves  on  the  stage  without 
confusion. 

My  toes  curled  up  in  terror  as  I  prepared  for  the 
calls  that  might  never  come,  and  I  insanely  wrote  out 
my  name  on  the  wrong  shift-key  for  the  call  I  am  to 
take  if  I  get  out  alone.  "Fourth  Curtain:  Mrs. 
038834."  What  if  they  gave  me  "the  bird"  when  I 
once  got  out  there,  if  I  once  got  out  there!  I  have 
heard  these  English  audiences  "boo."  It  drifts  down 
from  the  gallery  like  a  cry  of  some  bird  of  ill-omen. 
Yet  we  of  the  theater  must  prepare  for  this  mimic 
advance.  We  can  but  retreat  if  the  enemy  is  too 
strong  for  us. 

I  stopped  typing  after  I  had  taken  my  inglorious 
mental  curtain-call  to  look  at  the  director  appealingly. 
"Do  I  know  my  lines?"  I  said. 

"Certainly  you  know  them,"  he  assured  me. 

I  had  asked  him  this  a  number  of  times  before,  and 
it  would  probably  be  the  last  thing  I  would  ask  him 
before  I  stepped  upon  the  stage. 

One  of  the  secretaries,  overhearing  me,  laughed 
with  a  good  deal  of  understanding.    "We  have  to  get 

27 


AN  AISIERICAN'S  LONDON 

an  assurance  from  some  higher  power  than  ourselves 
now  and  then,  don't  we?"  he  said. 

''That's  one  of  the  advantages  of  present-day  mental 
science,"  some  one  else  spoke  up.  The  stewards  had 
brought  in  the  tea,  and  work  had  momentarily  ceased. 

''Yes,  this  invoking  a  strength  which  doesn't  seem 
to  be  ours  is  just  a  newer  fashion  for  importuning  God 
to  help  us,"  the  first  man  answered. 

"Pershing  isn't  ashamed  to  ask  for  help  in  the  old- 
fashioned  way,"  a  military  man  broke  in  from  across 
the  table.  "One  of  his  aides  said  to  him  the  first  day 
of  the  attack  on  the  Argonne,  'General,  I  feel  like 
praying.'   But  Pershing  answered,  'I  have  been.'" 

"Well,  I  don't  know  what  you  call  it,"  I  admitted, 
"but  if  I  were  on  dry  land  now,  I'd  be  paying  a 
mental  scientist  two  dollars  a  treatment  just  to  have 
him  tell  me  I  know  my  lines." 

"And  do  you?" 

"Yes,  if  he  tells  me  so." 

"What  if  you  haven't  studied  them?" 

"Oh,  they're  very  sensible,"  I  explained.  "One 
'healer'  gave  me  a  good  thought  before  the  premiere 
of  the  play.  He  asked  me  if  I  had  committed  my 
words  carefully,  and  I  replied  that  I  had,  but  that 
I  was  awfully  fearful.  *If  you've  committed  them, 
they're  inside  of  you  for  the  rest  of  your  existence. 
AATienever  you  grow  nervous  over  approaching  lines 
that  you  feel  you  don't  know,  open  your  mouth  wide — 
they'll  come  out!'" 

One  of  the  number  said  if  he  came  the  first  night 
and  found  me  standing  silently  with  my  mouth  open 
he  would  remain  perfectly  at  ease,  but  the  littlest  one 
of  our  company  came  over  to  our  table  for  more  tea 
and  sturdily  upheld  me.    I  don't  know  what  cult  she 

28 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

belongs  to,  but  she  always  makes  me  feel  that  every- 
thing is  going  to  be  all  right,  and  if  I  paid  her  two 
dollars  she  would  probably  do  me  as  much  good 
as  a  professional  "cheerer-up" — it's  the  fee  which 
gives  an  importance  to  the  suggestion  promulgated. 
Why  do  we  place  small  value  on  what  we  get  for 
nothing? 

''It's  true,  it  takes  an  outsider  to  help  us  when 
we're  down  and  out  spiritually  and  mentally,"  she 
said.  "We  have  gro^n  negative  and  we  need  a  posi- 
tive, disinterested  personality  as  a  sustaining  force." 

''That's  hj'pnotism,"  the  Y  secretary  contended. 

I  was  about  to  attack  him,  but  the  littlest  one  went 
on,  thoughtfully:  "I  don't  care  what  it  is,  but  it  gets 
you  through  a  perfomiance.  A  lot  more  professionals 
go  to  be  encouraged  than  we  have  any  idea  of,  and 
my  English  friends  write  me  that  many  of  the  British 
officers  w^ent  to — you  know — her  eyes  sought  out  a 
Briton — "your  big  mental  scientist  over  there — 
Lawson.  They  asked  to  be  safely  directed,  and  some 
asked  to  have  their  men  protected." 

"I'd  rather  trust  to  military  tactics,"  answered  a 
Briton,  stodgily.    He  was  a  civilian. 

"Well,  anyway,  they  went.  The  thing's  in  the  air. 
God  in  a  new  guise,  perhaps." 

I  broke  in  again,  refusing  to  be  out  of  anything 
which  I  commenced.  I  told  them  of  a  New  York 
'premiere  and  of  my  anxiety  over  a  new  act  which  the 
author  had  dashed  off  his  typewriter  and  pitched  at 
us  at  the  last  moment,  as  though  we  could  type  it  on 
our  brains.  I  had  studied  the  part  "out  of  my  head, " 
as  the  players  sa3^  I  felt  I  could  never  go  through 
with  it,  so  I  hunted  up  a  scientist.  He  was  getting 
a  divorce  from  his  wife,  but  that  had  nothing  to  do 

29 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

with  the  case.  He  was  a  sandy-haired  man,  and  I 
wouldn't  trust  a  sandy-haired  man  in  the  heart — 
but  in  the  head — ah,  yes!  During  the  treatment  the 
healer  kept  leaning  forward  to  put  his  hand  on  my 
brow  and  repeat,  impressively,  ''When  the  curtain 
goes  up  on  that  last  act  you  will  know  your  lines." 

''And  did  you?"  one  of  the  table  asked,  because  he 
thought  it  was  the  time  to  ask  it — or  he  may  have 
wanted  to  talk  himself. 

"Just  listen,"  I  continued.  "The  star  sent  for  me 
to  run  through  the  lines  between  the  second  and  this 
last  act — there  were  three  acts — and  while  I  went 
down  to  the  stage  I  begged  him  not  to  do  the  scene.  If 
we  didn't  know  the  words  it  would  only  terrify  us  the 
more,  for  we  had  to  play  it,  anyway,  within  four 
minutes,  so  there  was  no  time  to  study.  But,  being  a 
star,  he  was  obdurate — that's  what  makes  'em  stars 
■ — and  I  tried  to  rehearse  with  the  orchestra  playing 
a  gay  little  fox-trot,  and  every  one  out  in  front  no 
doubt  saying  how  well  'it'  was  going.  Well,  I 
didn't  know  one  word,  not  a  word,  and  the  director 
looked  at  me  in  horror.  I  could  only  hold  on  to  the 
thought  for  which  I  had  paid  two  dollars:  'When  the 
curtain  goes  up  on  that  last  act  you  will  know  your 
lines.'  So  I  told  them  not  to  worry,  but  to  ring  up. 
They  did.  I  had  to  run  down  a  long  staircase,  shout- 
ing out  my  scene,  with  the  star  standing  below — " 
Here  I  hesitated,  with  true  dramatic  instinct. 

"I'm  the  goat — what's  the  answer?"  queried  the 
director. 

"I  spoke  all  my  lines,  I  spoke  all  the  star's  lines, 

and  told  him  when  to  go  off  the  stage,  for  he  was 

utterly  paralyzed  with  fear.    Now  what  do  you  think 

of  that?" 

30 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

The  man  reiterated  that  it  was  hypnotism,  and  some 
said  it  was  worth  two  dollars.  The  January  seas, 
trying  to  get  into  the  party,  slapped  the  boat  angrily 
and  slopped  over  our  tea.  It  broke  up  the  seance. 
The  director  had,  or  thought  he  had,  the  last  word. 
''Pure  concentration!  That's  the  reason  the  actor 
is  tired  at  the  end  of  his  performance.  His  concen- 
tration is  tremendous.  I  don't  believe  in  this  mental 
suggestion  stuff.  Now  I  just  go  to  the  members  of 
the  company  on  a  first  night  and  tell  them,  separately, 
how  good  they  are  going  to  be.  They  always  play 
better." 

And  the  director  wondered  why  the  ship's  company 
laughed. 

*•!«  ^i'  *i^  ^tf  ^^  ^ 

?J>  •!•  ^  't*  •!•  ^ 

A  general  conversation  in  the  companionway  or 
the  lounge  has  not  been  the  usual  thing  with  us  actors, 
however.  We  stick  together,  although  we  may  have 
few  tastes  in  common  beyond  that  of  the  theater. 
A  traveling  company  is  brought  into  contact  with 
men  and  women  of  all  pursuits,  yet  we  never  know 
them.  And  what  these  varied  men  and  women  do 
not  understand  is  that,  in  America,  we  do  not  want 
to  know  them.  The  gulf  of  the  footlights  is  im- 
passable. We  talk  across  to  them — they  look  at  us; 
if  they  encourage  us  over  the  footlights  they  increase 
our  salaries.  We  call  them  outsiders,  yet  we  know 
that  they  are  really  the  architects  of  our  fate. 

Now  and  then  on  this  boat  passengers  drop  down 
in  the  deck-chairs  either  side  of  me  to  ask  if  we  don't 
get  tired  of  saying  the  same  thing  night  after  night. 
They  all  ask  the  same  question.  And  they  are  mysti- 
fied when  I  reply  that  playing  a  part  is  only  one-third 
of  the  performance.     The  other  two-thirds  is   the 

31 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

audience — the  response — and  as  the  audience  changes 
nightly  we  have  always  fresh  material  to  work  with. 

''Still,"  answered  an  army  chaplain,  doubtfully, 
"I'd  hate  to  preach  the  same  sermon  at  every  service." 

*'If  your  audience — excuse  me,  congregation — 
didn't  have  to  sit  in  decorous,  frozen  silence,  but 
could  express  their  approval  as  your  discourse  went 
on,  you  might  enjoy  repeating  the  same  thing — enjoy 
'working  for  points.'  Some  nights  you  would  go  well, 
some  nights  poorly.  If  you  kept  on  going  poorly, 
the  church  would  dismiss  you.  'Working  for  points' 
keeps  you  up  to  your  standard." 

''We're  out  for  something  else  besides  applause," 
he  delicately  suggested. 

"We  aren't.  Applause  is  all  we  have  to  measure 
our  success  by." 

He  probably  thinks  us  a  vain  people,  and  no  doubt 
this  continuous  seeking  for  approval  develops  a  crav- 
ing for  praise — but  if  we  are  not  praised  we  lose  our 
bread  and  butter.  Did  any  one  ever  stop  to  think 
that  of  all  the  arts  acting  is  the  only  one  that  cannot 
be  enjoyed  alone?  A  woman  may  sing  for  herself, 
paint  with  enjoyment,  write,  or  read  what  she  has 
written,  with  a  consciousness  that  art  is  its  own  con- 
solation. But  when  the  actor  is  not  before  an  audi- 
ence his  talent  is  lying  fallow. 

He  may  tell  you  that  he  stays  at  home  and  plays 
long  scenes  by  himself — but  don't  you  believe  it. 
Imagine  a  farceur  prancing  around  a  room  uttering, 
"I'm  Charley's  Aunt  from  Brazil,  where  the  nuts 
come  from,"  to  silent,  unresponsive  walls.  So,  dear 
public,  be  generous  with  your  applause,  or  at  least 
let  us  feel  that  you  are  attentive.  Don't  buy  an 
orchestra  seat  just  to  spread  yourself  out  in.    When 

32 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

you  give  your  boredom  full  play  the  actor  grows 
nervous.  He  is  not  holding  the  audience,  and  the 
star  in  the  wings  is  apt  to  remark  to  his  stage  manager 
that  the  poor  Thespian  has  not'a  compelling  person- 
ality. His  re-engagement  for  the  following  season  is 
beginning  to  fade — ''Iris  out,"  as  the  moving-picture 
directors  say. 

To-night,  however,  I  was  driven  to  my  forty-sixth 
cabin  shortly  after  certain  others  scattered  to  theirs. 
It  has  been  a  stormy  day.  At  one  time  the  big  ship 
stopped  her  engines,  as  much  as  to  say  to  the  waves : 
''Now  have  it  your  own  way  for  a  while.  The  world 
is  tired  of  battling  and  so  am  I."  But  after  a  while 
it  picked  up  courage  and  plowed  its  way  through 
rebellious  mountains  of  opposition — as  we  must  do. 

Our  comedian  caused  the  scattering  from  the  par- 
ticular corner  of  the  lounge  where  he  was  holding 
forth.  He  chose  to-night  to  tell  me  in  a  clear,  ringing 
voice  of  the  Bowery  days  of  his  youth,  and  of  the 
magnificent  competitions  among  gentlemen  of  his 
acquaintance  in  the  eating  line.  No  one  was  caring 
much  about  eating,  except  the  comedian;  still,  the 
subject  had  the  fascination  of  novelty,  and  his  cheery 
enthusiasm  over  food  was  attractive  in  its  whimsi- 
cality. 

My  confrere  tells  me  that  it  was  the  custom  for 
matches  to  be  made  and  great  sums  of  money  placed 
on  the  man  who  was  judged  to  be  able  to  eat  the 
most  at  one  sitting.  They  had  eating  trainers,  who 
would  arrange  the  contests,  and  I  think  the  man  who 
had  gastronomic  limitations  paid  the  food  bill. 

''It  would  go  like  this,"  the  little  comedian  ex- 
plained. "One  fellah  would  eat  another,  and  he'd  say 

to  him,  'I'll  eat  you  for  a  thousand  dollars  a  side.'" 

33 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

At  this  point,  a  lady,  her  life  already  tinged  by  a 
bilious  sweater,  hastened  out  with  lips  compressed, 
I  assume,  by  disapproval.  But  I  was  feeling  reckless. 
There  was  a  precious  sort  of  man  near  by  wearing  a 
velvet  jacket  who  had  annoj^ed  me  from  the  first  day. 
Not  that  he  had  spoken  to  me — oh,  nothing  like 
that — but  he  had  referred  to  us  as  a  troupe.  ''How 
much  did  they  eat?"  I  pursued,  my  eyes  on  the 
esthetic  one. 

^'Well,  you  know  those  Coney  Island  steamers 
serving  a  dinner,  'All  you  can  eat  for  a  dollar'?  (I 
didn't,  but  I  said  I  did.)  "One  fellah,  Moskowitz 
was  his  name,  ate  up  thirty  table  d'hotes — and  that 
wasn't  a  bet.  He  was  just  taking  a  little  ride  to  get 
in  condition." 

The  velvet  jacket  twitched,  yet  remained  reading 
its  vellum-bound  book,  but  two  Y  secretaries  went 
below  to  get  their  music. 

"Why,  it  was  nothing  for  those  fellahs  to  ask  for 
all  the  vegetables  in  the  kitchen  when  they  come  into 
a  restaurant.  They  ate  a  lot  of  squash — squash  goes 
down  easy." 

The  velvet  jacket  heaved. 

"The  first  match  that  was  ever  fixed  up,  however, 
between  a  big  man  named  Barney  and  this  Mosko- 
witz, never  got  any  farther  than  the  opening  speech. 
It  was  in  one  of  those  Dutch  restaurants,  and  thou- 
sands of  dollars  had  been  placed  on  both  the  men. 
Barney  had  offered  to  eat  this  Pole,  and  when  they  do 
that  it's  polite  for  the  one  who  made  the  offer  to  ask 
his  opponent  what  he  wants  to  start  off  with.  So 
Barney  says  to  Moskowitz,  'What  will  we  begin 
on?'  And  do  you  know  what  that  Pole  answered?" 

"Something  oily,  I  suppose.    Sardines?" 

34 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

"Sardines — nothing!  'Well/ said  Moskowitz,  'let's 
begin  with  hams.^'' 

The  velvet  coat  disappeared,  and  I  waited  long 
enough  to  ask  what  was  the  horrible  death  of  a  man 
like  that.  He  had  passed  away  but  a  short  time  ago 
of  old  age.  So  there  is  nothing  to  be  derived  from  this 
pleasant  little  sea  tale  beyond  an  added  force  to  my 
earlier  statement  that  actors  stick  by  one  another. 

As  a  little  band  differentiated  from  the  statesmen, 
the  financiers,  the  army  and  the  navy,  consideration 
is  shown  us.  On  the  day  we  were  discovered  careening 
around  a  corner  of  the  dining-room  in  our  efforts  to 
follow  the  movements  of  the  play,  the  two  private 
drawing-rooms  of  the  ship  were  offered  us  by  the 
well-endowed  possessors.  Our  hostesses  sometimes 
sit  in  a  corner  of  these  salons,  no  doubt  thinking  the 
play  dreary,  for  nothing  is  so  ghastly  as  a  comedy  in 
rehearsal.  American  women  are  fine  in  all  walks 
of  life — to  my  American  mind — but  there  is  nothing 
more  splendid  than  one  of  gentle  breeding.  We  have 
a  real  grande  dame  on  the  boat,  in  whose  room  we  re- 
hearsed. The  door  was  by  chance  left  open  at  one  of 
the  ''repetitions,"  and  a — a  mineral  king  with  more 
money  than  manners  stopped  in  the  passage  to  stare 
at  the  animals.  The  animals,  always  too  quick  to 
resent  the  outsider,  grew  restive,  and  the  good  lady 
arose,  without  apology,  closing  the  door  in  the  face 
of  the  leering  one.  We  may  have  been  strange  com- 
pany for  her,  but  we  were  her  guests. 

I  dined  away  from  my  own  people  one  night  to  sit 
at  the  table  of  a  great,  wise  man  who  has,  quite  in- 
cidentally, a  great  fortune  wisely  made.  "Dining 
with  royalty, "  one  of  the  Enghsh  officers  put  it.  I 
fear  that  was  about  the  only  time  the  English  officers 

35 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

noticed  me.  Lacking  an  aristocracy  in  America,  the 
British  are  not  unahve  to  our  class  that  the  moneyed 
element  form.  The  aristocracy  of  brains  does  not 
seem  to  figure  at  all  with  them  in  any  country,  but 
"Is  he  very  rich?"  they  will  ask  when  we  speak  of 
one  of  our  people,  just  as  they  will  say,  ''He  is  a 
great  swell,"  of  some  Briton  of  good  birth — in  both 
cases  lightly,  as  though  it  didn't  make  any  difference 
one  way  or  the  other. 

Still,  I  am  looking  forward  to  a  very  beautiful  Eng- 
land, ranks  leveled  by  a  common  cause,  hearts  welded 
into  one  by  their  sweeping  losses,  money  made  mean 
by  the  utter  futility  of  it  as  a  coin  to  buy  forgetfulness. 
In  spite  of  the  chaos  of  the  world,  proud  England 
must  be  gloriously  happy  that  it  is  again  victorious 
England.  Shall  I  say — will  I  be  able  to  say — must  be 
very  grateful  as  well?    I  don't  know. 

The  last  ship's  concert  has  been  held.  Unlike  pre- 
war days,  talent  from  the  second  cabin  was  not  levied 
on,  and  girls  wearing  a  Christian  emblem  made  up 
the  new  entertainers.  The  Y  young  women  were 
charming  and  beautifully  behaved — friendly  with  the 
men  and  not  too  friendly.  And  all  of  the  contingent 
are  cheerful. 

We  talk  a  good  deal  of  ''professional  cheerfulness" 

and  are  inclined  to  sneer  at  it.     This  annoys  me. 

They  could  just  as  easily  be  professionally  gloomy — 

and  they  probably  feel  like  it  often.    Even  a  Pierrot 

with  his  smile  painted  on  has  a  better  chance  in  a 

crowd  than  a  glowering  countenance,  no  matter  how 

honestly  it  is  his  own.    And  the  world  is  just  a  crowd 

which  we  must  make  our  way  through. 

An  Englishwoman  who  has  spent  a  good  deal  of 

3G 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

her  time  entertaining  the  British  in  France  talked 
to  us  in  the  dining-saloon  one  night.  We  all  liked 
her,  and  all  cried,  and  gave  her  money  to  go  on  with 
her  work.  I  was  talking  with  her  afterward  as  some 
vague  American  gentleman  slipped  a  folded-up  bill 
in  her  hand — only,  when  she  unfolded  it,  it  was  a 
hundred  dollars.  We  ran  up  the  stairs  to  thank  him, 
but  we  hadn't  a  clue,  so  we  came  back  and  both  of 
us  cried.  I  don't  want  to  burden  him  with  my  literary 
efforts,  but  I  hope  he  will  read  this  one  page  of  this 
one  book  to  learn  how  grateful  she  was. 

The  entertainer  told  me  that  she  had  always  wanted 
to  go  into  plays  instead  of  confining  herself  to  work 
on  lecture  and  concert  stands.  She  probably  would  be 
awful,  as  it  is  her  gentle,  homely,  undecorated  self 
which  makes  her.  With  a  layer  of  paint  and  a  lot 
of  players  around  with  whom  she  must  blend  herself 
to  give  a  good  performance,  she  might  be  swamped. 
But  I  couldn't  tell  her  this,  and  I  hope  she  will  go  on 
feeling  comfortably,  as  so  many  do,  that  she  is  a  great 
actress  lost  to  the  world. 

What  arouses  me,  at  the  end  of  this  voyage  (it  is 

something  I  did  not  come  over  to  solve,  yet  it  obtrudes 

itself  through  each  shipboard  day),    is   the  way  a 

most  interesting  woman  like  this  is  left  to  sit  in  her 

deck-chair,   quite  unattended  by  the  gallants  of  a 

ship — or  men  of  any  kind  for  that  matter — when  every 

girl  with  bobbed  hair  riotously  covering  a  scanty  brain 

has  a  man  on  the  foot-rest  of  her  chair,  and  one  or 

two  others  waiting  their  turn.    This  woman — thirty, 

perhaps — is  amusing.    She  has  had  wide  experiences, 

she  has  been  hurt — it  is  in  her  eyes — therefore  she 

can  be  tender.     She  is  distinctly  feminine,  yet  she 

sits  down  with  her  trusty  fountain-pen  and  a  blank 

•67 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

diary  for  companions.  Why — to  go  into  it  more  gen- 
erally— does  the  man  of  the  world  prefer  to  gallivant 
around  with  a  young  girl  just  peeping  out  on  this 
world,  instead  of  devoting  himself  to  some  woman, 
not  so  young,  but  so  much  of  the  earth  that  she 
could  apply — if  he  asked  it — ^her  excellent  knowledge 
of  hfe  to  being  exceedingly  agreeable? 

(Why  should  she  have  to  wait  to  be  asked,  if  she  is 
ready  to  be  agreeable?  But  there!  No  use  going 
into  that!    Keep  it  for  another  book — a  tome.) 

Why  isn't  the  pretty  woman  just  over  thirty-five 
as  much  in  demand  as  the  pretty  girl  just  over 
eighteen?  Of  course,  if  the  average  man  is  asked 
this  he  will  declare  he  does  prefer  the  woman  of 
thirty-five,  and  you  must  then  weed  out  his  asser- 
tions as  extraneous  matter.  I  canvassed  one  novelist 
on  the  subject.  A  man  who  never  has  a  fancy — cer- 
tainly not  a  light  one— except  that  which  he  puts 
in  books,  so  I  felt  that  I  could  get  something  like 
the  truth  from  him. 

He  admitted  baldly  that  he  liked  'em  young  be- 
cause they  didn't  know  anything,  and  he  could  im- 
press 'em,  whereas  an  older  woman,  although  she 
might  apply  all  her  experience  of  life  to  her  emotion, 
would  be  so  able  to  measure  his  own  emotion  by 
those  very  experiences  that  he  would  be  "doocid 
uncomfortable." 

The  littlest  girl  of  the  company,  who  is  the  mother 
of  a  grown-up  young  man,  said  it  was  all  custom. 
If  Adonis  had  gone  after  the  middle-aged  of  the  god- 
desses, if  Jove  had  taken  even  a  decent  interest  in 
them,  or  if  Paris  had  dug  some  woman  of  forty  out 
of  her  ancient  bed  to  give  her  the  apple,  all  the  men 
now  would  be  buying  soda-water  for  old  ladies  whose 

38 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

digestions  were  already  impaired  by  deep  draughts 
from  the  Pierian  spring.  ^'They're  just  hke  sheep," 
she  completed,  contemptuously,  watching  a  good- 
looking  officer  hanging  over  a  blond  miss  whose 
permanent  wave  was  ruling  Britannia  in  strict  defi- 
ance of  the  stirring  chorus  of  the  British  navy. 

I  shook  my  head  and  leaned  farther  over  the  boat's 
rail  to  watch  for  the  phosphorus  in  the  water  which 
I  knew  was  not  there.  Only  the  young — in  couples — 
ever  see  those  glowing  little  animals. 

''No,  it's  deeper  than  custom.  It's  physiological. 
It's  biological.  These  men  don't  even  know  why  they 
choose  stupid,  undeveloped  youth  when  they  could 
have  a  so  much  better  time  with  Mr.  Benjamin 
Franklin's  lady.  Youth  is  productive,  fertile,  and 
they  are  drawn  to  it.  They  have  no  scheme,  vicious 
or  honest,  in  their  minds  for  continuing  the  species. 
The  two  will  only  chaff  together  for  half  an  hour,  or 
he  may  lead  her  out  to  dance  on  the  windy  deck. 
She  won't  know  the  two-step  as  well  as  that  carefully 
coiffed  woman  reading  in  the  lounge,  but  there  is  just 
one  thing  that  the  carefully  coiffed  woman  can  count 
on — her  reading  will  be  undisturbed." 

The  littlest  girl  exclaimed  in  anger,  "But  if  it's  as 
deep  as  that — if  it  can't  be  overcome — there  isn't  any 
chance  for  us  at  all!" 

''Chance  for  its?"  I  echoed,  coldly. 

But  she  had  gone  off  to  get  her  book. 

None  of  this  makes  any  difference  to  me,  and  I'm 
sorry  I  got  on  the  subject.  I  am  sitting  quite  alone — 
and  happily  alone — on  my  packed  steamer-trunk, 
its  fid  having  been  danced  over  by  two  palm-ex- 
tended stewards.   Miss  Brainfeather,  my  stewardess, 

since  it  is  the  last  night  out,  has  remembered  to 
4  39 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

bring  some  hot  water,  and  I  shall  wash  my  face  and 
go  to  bed.  A  number  of  passengers  along  this  deck 
have  been  celebrating  their  going  ashore  as  they  cele- 
brated their  going  aboard.  One  bewildered  lady  has 
stuck  her  head  out  to  call  with  great  dignity  for 
assistance.  Her  voice  rings  down  the  passage: 
''Shepherdess/'  calls  the  lady,  ''Shepherdess!" 
To-morrow  I  go  into  the  land  of  delightful  repose 
to  solve  the  servant-girl  question,  which  has  to  do 
with  women — not  men. 


Chapter  IV 

A  London  Hotel. 

OH!  Oh!  Oh!  How  cold  I  am!  And  bewil- 
dered. I  don't  mind — I  never  did  mind  being 
hungry.  I  look  back  over  the  first  tliree 
entries  in  my  diaiy.  Long  paragraphs.  Long  sen- 
tences. 

I  think  of  the  English  writer  now  in  vogue.  She  has 
no  subject  and  no  predicate  in  her  sentences.  Some- 
times an  adjective  or  an  adverb  form  her  whole 
paragraph.  Once  I  believed  she  was  crazy.  But  she 
is  not.  She  is  in  England  now  and  has  been  for  four 
years.    And  England  is  suffering  from  shell-shock. 

But  I  must  not  write  like  her.  I  am  an  American 
and  could  not  get  away  with  it.  I  have  not  suffered 
as  these  people  have.  I  must  try  from  now  on  to 
have  a  subject  and  a  predicate.  Or  the  publishers 
will  flip  my  manuscript  between  thin  fingers. 

Adversely. 

Yet  when  it  is  so  cold  how  can  one  write  at  length? 
Or  wash — at  length?  But  I  must  go  back  to  the  boat 
— to  the  boat,  which  I  thought  was  not  heated.  It 
warms  me  to  think  of  that  boat  and  the  hot  water 
for  the  bottle  at  night — sometimes  so  hot  that  I 
poured  a  little  of  it  out.    Wasting  hot  water. 

Officials  came  aboard  the  boat  at  Liverpool  and 
were  hours  studying  our  passports.  I  know  now  they 
enjoyed  lingering  in  the  warmth.  I  was  one  of  those 
they  didn't  like  the  looks  of,  and  was  made  to  stand 

41 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

in  a  long  queue.  It  extended  itself  down  the  passage- 
way, and  there  we  awaited  our  turn  to  come  before 
the  Board  of  Military  Enquiry.  The  Military  had 
lunch  brought  in  as  we  waited.  When  the  door  of 
the  room  opened  we  could  see  them  eating.  It  was 
past  our  luncheon  hour. 

After  a  while  I  was  let  in.  I  had  reached  the  point 
when  I  was  about  to  cry  out,  "'Yes,  I  am  a  spy;  take 
me  out  and  shoot  me,"  and  have  it  over  with.  But  it 
was  only  that  we  had  no  labor  permits,  and  as  I 
was  the  first  of  the  company  to  have  my  passport 
examined  I  was  sent  in  to  represent  the  rest. 

I  knew  that  I  Avould  have  to  think  very  quickly 
about  those  missing  labor  permits,  or  we  would  be 
going  on  down  to  Brest  and  returning  to  America 
with  a  load  of  soldiers.  Of  course,  had  I  known  how 
cold  it  was  to  be,  I  would  not  have  said  that  a  man 
had  come  all  the  way  from  London  to  speak  to  them 
of  this  matter.  Had  I  known  there  would  not  be  a 
drop  of  hot  water  or  heat  of  any  kind  in  this  hotel, 
I  would  have  declared  it  was  impossible  ever  to  get 
labor  permits,  and  returned  to  my  warm  forty-sixth 
cabin.  As  it  was  (having  only  read  tranquilly  of  the 
discomforts  of  eight  million  Londoners,  not  having 
experienced  them  myself),  I  went  outside  and  cor- 
ralled an  English  gentleman  who  had  come  up  from 
London — gone  down  from  London,  the  English  would 
say — to  meet  his  wife,  and  told  him  he  must  see  us 
through. 

It  is  hard  for  a  Britisher  to  be  untruthful,  especially 

if  he  runs  any  risk  of  being  discovered.    Yet  the  matter 

was  fixed  up.    This  is  no  Guide  to  the  Young  Traveler, 

but  I  think  it  would  be  wise,  no  matter  how  idle  one 

is,  to  get  a  labor  permit  before  entering  Great  Britain, 

42 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

and  bear  in  mind,  while  you  may  get  one  for  yourself, 
you  can't  for  a  maid  or  a  valet,  if  he  or  she  is  to  remain 
in  the  country.  Great  Britain  is  going  to  be  fairly 
well  engaged  in  the  next  few  years  finding  employ- 
ment for  her  own  people.  However,  when  it  was 
demonstrated  to  those  gentlemen,  who  didn't  know 
anything  about  it,  that  no  one  but  an  American 
company  could  play  an  American  comedy,  we  were 
allowed  to  go  ashore. 

By  that  time  my  emotions  were  worn  down  to  a 
fine  concern  over  my  trunk  and  the  securing  of  a  seat 
in  the  train  'Agoing  up  to  London."  Yet  the  sight  of 
the  first  ''bobby"  gave  me  a  thrill  once  more,  and  I 
ran  to  a  member  of  the  company  who  had  never  been 
over  before :  ''  Look — on  the  dock — with  a  helmet  and 
funny  cape.      That's  a  policeman.      Isn't  he  sweet?" 

The  American  looked  at  him.  ''Not  as  big  as  ours," 
he  boasted.  A  great  impatience  with  a  certain  type 
of  my  countrymen  swept  over  me.  They  put  clamps 
do\vn  on  their  receptiveness  the  minute  they  go  into 
another  country.  Everything  has  a  comparative 
value,  and,  since  they  are  sturdy  in  their  nationalism,  it 
cannot  possibly  be  as  good  as  the  same  thing  in  their 
own  land.  This  is  supposed  to  be  a  British  fault,  but 
I  find  it  more  prevalent  with  us.  And  the  more — 
to  be  very  elegant — reprehensible.  We  should  be 
plastic,  for  we  are  a  younger  nation,  without  a  thou- 
sand years  of  bacon  and  eggs  every  morning  to  start 
us  running  in  our  set  way. 

In  the  train,  with  twice  the  usual  number  packed 
into  our  carriage  (and  Japanese  generals  with  first- 
class  tickets  riding  third),  I  sought  delicately  to  sug- 
gest that  the  great  charm  of  a  strange  country  is 
that  it  is  different  from,  not  identical  with,  our  usual 

43 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

surroundings.  Some  of  them  looked  at  me  dumbly. 
It  was  all  very  well  for  me  to  talk  about  self-improve- 
ment under  unpleasant  conditions.  I  had  not  packed 
my  traveling-rug,  but  theij  were  very  cold  about  the 
legs.  They  wished  they  were  as  comfortable  as  they 
had  been  at  home,  and  devil  take  the  joy  of  contrasts. 

We  were  hungry.  There  was  no  provision  made  at 
the  station  for  food,  unless  you  were  a  soldier.  To 
be  sure,  the  littlest  girl  was  carrying  ten  pounds  of 
sugar  which  had  trickled  a  fine  white  hop-o'-my-thumb 
path  from  the  custom^s  to  the  train  platform.  The 
waste  had  created  the  wildest  excitement  among  the 
dock-hands.  One  man,  out  of  concern  for  her,  had 
endeavored  to  stop  the  leak. 

I  remember  how  we  nudged  each  other,  for  in  his 
breast  pocket  he  was  carrying  some  odd  bits  of  wood, 
splinters  from  a  packing-case.  Knowing  my  England — 
the  England  of  a  decade  ago — I  explained  that  the 
working-man  was  generally  very  poor.  The  company 
seemed  satisfied  with  this,  and  no  one  called  my  atten- 
tion to  a  very  fine  lady  at  one  of  the  stations  carrying 
a  few  odd  bits  of  plaster  laths  in  a  silken  bag. 

A  guard  came  to  beg  for  a  match,  and  when  we 
tossed  him  a  box  to  keep  he  withdrew,  gasping  thanks 
like  a  dying  fish.  At  the  risk  of  being  a  bore,  I  con- 
tinued to  explain  that  they  were  a  courteous  people, 
appreciative  of  the  smallest  kindness.  Yet  I  was  a 
little  perplexed  over  that  same  porter  who  had  been 
so  grateful  for  a  box  of  American  matches.  It  was 
he  I  had  importuned  to  carry  my  bags  up  and  down 
the  length  of  the  waiting  train  until  I  had  found  my 
company.  It  meant  a  sum  of  money  to  him — and  a 
very  good  sum — for  we  are  prodigal  at  first  in  Eng- 
land, and  apt  to  become  miserly  later.    I  could  recall 

44 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

how  the  porters  would  have  struggled  for  the  honor  of 
carrying  my  bag  when  I  last  lived  here.  Now,  all  of 
a  sudden  he  grew  exasperated  with  looking,  flopped 
down  my  effects,  and  walked  off.  He  gave  no  explana- 
tion, and  he  did  not  wait  for  the  smallest  piece  of  coin. 
Neither  poverty  nor  manners,  which  formed  so  obvi- 
ously a  part  of  the  lives  of  the  British  working- classes 
in  pre-war  days,  evinced  themselves.  Yet  he  was 
grateful  for  a  box  of  matches! 

Late  lunch  came — wired  for  ahead — lunch  in  paste- 
board boxes.  Awful.  But  I  am  glad  to  say  none  of  us 
whimpered.    Besides,  we  were  hungry. 

But  I  must  not  keep  writing  of  food  (why  did  I 
waste  my  chocolates  on  those  strangers  in  the  boat?). 
It  is  late.  The  chambermaids  have  almost  stopped 
screaming  up  and  down  the  hall.  If  I  get  to  bed  now 
I  may  sleep  a  little,  before  their  morning  screams  be- 
gin. There  appears  to  be  no  housekeeper  at  all.  If  I 
now  heat  some  water  on  my  little  stove  with  my  last 
tin  of  sohd  alcohol,  I  might  be  able  to  wash,  slightly — 
then  hastily  pour  the  contents  of  the  bowl  into  the  hot- 
water  bag. 

Yes,  I  had  better  stop.  I  am  not  writing  well.  If 
I  am  not  thinking  of  the  chocolates,  I  am  thinking  of 
the  hot-water  bag,  and  whether  I  will  put  it  at  my 
feet  or  on  my  nose  first.  I  am  conscious  of  my  nose — 
it  is  sticldng  far,  far  out  in  the  frosty  air  of  my  bed- 
room. The  cold  water  runs  from  the  tap  whether 
turned  off  or  on. 

Enter  Beechey. 

Her  name  is  Beatrice,  and,  since  she  ivill  pronounce 

it  in  the  Italian  fashion,  the  abbreviation  must  be 

Beechey.   Besides,  she  could  have  no  other  name — to 

45 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

me.  Does  it  mean  to  you  that  she  is  small,  and  has 
brown  hair,  soft  and  straight?  That  her  eyes  are 
bright,  looking  out  without  suspicion  upon  a  world 
that  will  always  be  suspicious  of  her  and  her  mousey 
ways?  Does  the  name  mean  that  she  is  always  shabby, 
and  often  hungry,  I  imagine?  Yet  she  loves  life  and 
couldn't  think  of  getting  out  of  it.  To  die  would  be 
terrible. 

That  is  because  she  is  a  painter.  If  she  were  a 
house-painter  she  would  do  much  better.  Then  she 
could  go  back  to  America  and  paint  up  the  few  ram- 
shackle cottages  which  bring  her  in  a  little  money 
now  and  then,  when  they  are  rented.  All  the  world  is 
seeking  for  homes,  except  Beechey's  houses  in  her 
home  town  in  the  Far  West.  There  is  no  use  urging 
her  to  buy  fewer  oil  paints  and  more  house  paint. 
There  is  no  use  trying  to  make  her  see  if  she  bought 
more  house  paint  she  could,  in  time,  buy  more  oil 
paints,  for  she  could  put  up  the  rentals.  "They  would 
then  want  kitchen  floors,"  Beechey  would  argue.  And 
probably  they  would. 

She  met  the  boat-train  in  the  black  of  a  February 
night,  as  she  met  me  years  ago  when  she  was  only  a 
slip  of  a  girl  come  to  England  because  Sargent  was 
here.  She  wore  a  little  American  flag  on  her  breast, 
fearing  that  she  might  have  changed  so  much  I  would 
not  know  her.  She  is  still  an  American,  although  she 
has  not  had  money  enough  in  ten  years  to  buy  her 
passage  home.  Once  or  twice  a  sum  had  been  given 
her  to  eke  out  the  passage  money,  but  she  had  un- 
fortunately walked  up  the  King's  Road  in  Chelsea  and 
had  bought  some  more  paints. 

It  was  very  black  at  Euston,  and  there  were  no 
porters  or  cabs.   The  Tube  employees  were  on  strike. 

46 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

Beechey  had  been  asked  to  get  me  a  room  with  a  fire, 
but  she  had  not  done  so.  She  said  she  couldn't  find 
one.  However,  our  Enghsh  manager  was  down  to 
meet  us.  He  had  chartered  a  lorry  for  our  luggage,  and 
engaged  rooms  at  a  hotel  until  we  could  look  out  for 
ourselves.  We  were  very  casual  over  this  accom- 
plishment, but  Beechey  said  he  was  wonderful — 
wonderful ! 

For  two  hours  we  then  struck  American  matches  in 
the  baggage-cars  (luggage-vans)  and  pulled  out  any 
trunks  we  wanted  to.  I  could  have  had  all  of  the 
mineral  king's,  as  he  had  gone  down  by  an  early 
special  train,  but  my  own  were  discovered  only  at  the 
bursting-into-tears  moment.  Some  day  I  hope  he  will 
give  me  a  half-crown  for  having  pulled  his  impedi- 
menta neatly  out  and  up  the  platform  before  finding 
them  to  be  his.  I  suppose  I  grew  a  little  hysterical, 
for,  as  I  kept  on  pulling  out  trunks,  I  became  rather 
proud  of  the  achievement.  "It's  only  a  knack,"  I 
would  gasp  out  to  Beechey,  who  was  guarding  my 
hand-luggage. 

''But  you  look  so  foolish,  dear,  rotating  strange 
boxes  up  and  down  the  platform,"  she  protested. 

''I  don't  care,"  I  shouted  back.    ''I'm  warm." 

I  might  never  have  stopped  had  she  not  called  out, 
as  I  was  trundling  one  huge  box  past  her,  "It  will  make 
you  hungry."    And  that  chillier  thought  stopped  me. 

At  last  my  troublesome  effects  were  huddled  to- 
gether, and  I  gave  the  driver  of  the  lorry  a  whole  lot 
of  money  to  carry  up  my  bags  as  well  as  my  boxes,  and 
we  made  our  way  out  of  the  engulfing  gloom  of  the 
terminus  to  the  sharp  clearness  of  the  night.  "It's 
lovely,  isn't  it?"  I  exclaimed.  "Fair,  too.  That  seems 

propitious." 

47 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

But  Beechey  looked  apprehensively  at  the  starry 
heavens.    ''Too  bright,"  she  shuddered. 

''Too  bright?" 

She  laughed  a  little  apologetically.  "We  can't  quite 
get  over  it — the  f  eehng  that  the  Huns  may  come  again." 

Then  I  remembered  that  the  raiders  had  chosen 
their  own  way  of  making  moonlight  ever  horrible  to 
lovers,  and  to  spinsters,  and  the  Coras  of  life  who  meas- 
ure a  night's  beauty,  not  by  the  constancy  of  the 
fickle  orb,  but  by  his.  I  looked  at  Beechey  with  a  new 
respect.  She  had  been  through  it  all,  as  had  these 
millions  of  others  here.  She  still  perambulated  nor- 
mally, om  foot  before  the  other,  and  spoke  my  lan- 
guage, laughed  and  looked  the  same — although 
strangely  pinched  about  the  face.  And  I  determined, 
on  that  long  trip  to  the  hotel  over  frozen  streets,  if 
I  suddenly  found  a  Londoner  walking  on  his  ear,  or 
behaving  in  what  he  would  have  considered  a  most 
unusual  fashion  a  few  years  ago,  to  accept  it  calmly, 
as  the  natural  result  of  thunderous  Zeppelins,  deci- 
mated homes,  and  dear  dead  sons. 

That  was  before  we  reached  the  hotel.  In  my  gen- 
erous reflections  this  Englishman,  walking  on  his 
ear,  would  not  in  any  way  affect  me,  beyond,  one 
might  say,  treating  the  vision  to  an  adventure.  I  was 
not  to  be  messed  up  in  this  four  years' — er — incon- 
venience, beyond  what  one  must  suffer  from  the  loss 
of  certain  material  comforts.  Then  we  made  oiu-  way 
to  the  desk,  and,  according  to  custom,  I  put  a  wreath 
of  smiles  on  my  lip  to  answer  the  welcome  I  would 
receive  from  those  black-robed  ladies  whose  duty  it 
was  to  assign  the  rooms. 

And  I  wore  the  wreath,  and  wore  it,  and  wore  it, 

until  it  grew  faded  and  was  thrown  away  among  other 

48 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

dried-up  floral  offerings  which,  to  continue  in  meta- 
phor, were  lying  in  a  corner  of  the  crowded  lobby. 
They  looked  for  all  the  world,  to  the  mind's  eye,  like 
a  stack  of  discarded  funeral  emblems. 

Weir  Mitchell,  in  Frangois,  wrote  of  a  hideous  citi- 
zeness  who  was  known  as  '^The  Crab"  in  the  days  of 
the  French  Revolution.  She  is  now  behind  the  desk  in 
this  hotel.  A  British  colonel,  hitherto  unafraid  of  any- 
thing, was  bending  over  her  obsequiously,  his  poor 
lips  trembling  as  he  tried  to  balance  his  wreath  of 
smiles  on  features  contorted  with  rage.  He  had  writ- 
ten for  rooms  and  a  reply  had  come  that  they  would 
be  reserved. 

''Not  the  truth,"  from  the  Crab.  "We  do  not  reply." 

He  retreated  in  confusion.    Possibly  his  first  defeat. 

An  anxious  young  woman  by  my  side  broke  in: 
"Mrs.  is  willing  to  share  her  room  with  me  to- 
night.  I've  come  up  from  the  country — and — " 

"Impossible.  Hers  is  a  single  room,"  from  the  Crab. 

"But  she  is  willing,  and  I  will  pay — " 

"Impossible." 

"But,  madam,  I  must  have  a  place  to  rest  my  head!" 

The  Crab  turned  her  back.  A  cold  terror  descended 
upon  us  waiting  ones.  A  dreadful  sense  of  guilt  hung 
over  us  as  we  humbly  took  our  keys.  We  were  all 
of  us  afraid  of  the  Crab,  bent,  venomous,  despising 
us  from  the  height  of  her  secure  position.  Sure,  for 
the  first  time  in  her  life,  of  a  job  of  some  duration. 

Clutching  my  weighted  chain-and-ball  trophy,   I 

asked  a  porter  for  my  floor.    "Not  my  business,"  he 

replied.    Once  in  the  lift,  I  asked  the  lift-man  of  my 

luggage.     "Not  my  business,"  he  replied.     Once  in 

my  small,  cold  room,  I  asked  a  passing  maid  for  towels. 

"Not  my  business,"  came  the  answer. 

49 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

Abashed,  I  walked  down  eight  flights  of  steps. 
Beechey  was  with  me.  There  w^as  a  funny  httle  smile 
around  her  pinched  mouth  as  she  watched  my  grow- 
ing consternation.  A  sad  httle  memorial  wreath  for 
a  dead  and  gone  courtesy.  We  ate  what  there  was  to 
eat — cold  ham — and  as  much  as  we  could  get  of  it. 
I  asked  the  waitress  for  spirits  of  some  kind  (I  thought 
if  they  could  be  bought !) .  She  glared  at  me.  ''Nine- 
thirty  and  past,  modom." 

"Modom!" — I  had  been  listening  for  that  since 
my  arrival.  I  had  rather  longed  for  the  deferential 
tone  which  accompanies  this  highly  affected  accent. 
I  had  not  expected  to  find  it  ejected  at  me  as  a  stone 
from  a  catapult.  I  watched  this  young  woman 
setting  her  table  for  the  morning.  She  threw  the  silver- 
ware about  angrily.  She  was,  indeed,  a  catapult. 
''Modom"  was  all  that  was  left  of  her  manners. 

Beechey  leaned  over  and  did  something  in  very 
bad  taste.  She  transferred  the  fat  of  the  ham  which, 
naturally,  I  hadn't  eaten  from  my  plate  to  hers. 
And  she  devoured  it  without  apology.  When  it  was 
all  eaten  we  went  into  the  lounge,  an  airless  place, 
packed  with  men  in  uniforms  of  all  the  Allied  countries. 
Women  were  with  some  of  them.  Our  young  girls, 
in  their  pretty  Y  uniforms,  who  had  come  from  the 
boat,  were  standing  about  confusedly,  trying  to  be 
gay  on  the  eve  of  their  great  adventure.  Every  one 
was  smoking,  and  the  calls  for  a  match  from  the  few 
waiters  was  incessant.  A  lighted  match  would  go 
from  man  to  man.  A  negro,  in  a  British  uniform,  sat 
at  a  small  table  with  a  blond  girl — obviously  not  a 
lady — as  his  companion.  His  black  hand  covered 
hers  as  it  lay  on  the  arm  of  her  chair.  One  of  the 
Y  girls  looked  at  me — she  was  sick  about  the  mouth. 

50 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

Beechey  could  not  get  a  taxi  to  drive  back  to  Chel- 
sea. We  would  try,  as  each  cab  drove  up  with  its 
freight,  but  always  some  one  had  a  prior  claim.  Some 
one  who  had  been  running  along  the  street  after  it. 
Once  I  offered  a  sum  which  I  thought  tempting  and 
was  laughed  at.  Once,  since  the  cab  remained  empty, 
I  repeated  anxiously  my  plea  that  he  would  drive 
Beechey  home.  My  American  accent  growing  sharper 
in  my  nervousness  smote  him  unpleasantly  on  the 
ear.  Annoyed  at  my  insistence,  he  let  me  have  it: 
"No!    No!    No!    That's  English,  eyen't  it?" 

"You  bet  it's  English — pure  English.  And  it  takes 
an  Englishman  to  say  it!"  I  was  frightened  of  my- 
self.   I  could  have  cried  with  disappointment. 

But,  hold  on  to  this.  After  a  while,  as  I  watched 
those  rich  patrons  running  along,  hoping  for  the  cab, 
I  thought  of  the  old  days  when  an  underfed  man, 
espying  boxes  on  top  of  a  four-wheeler  that  must 
sooner  or  later  be  taken  off,  would  run  through  these 
same  London  streets  that  he  might  earn  a  few  pence 
carrying  these  boxes  into  the  house.  Flop-flop  would 
go  his  broken  soles  as  he  would  patter  along  behind 
us  as  we  sat  proudly  in  the  four-wheeler.  His  ragged 
garments  invited  the  raw  air;  his  breath  would  come, 
labored  and  agonizing,  toward  the  end  of  the  trip. 
And  for  a  few  pence! 

So,  penetrating  the  bewilderment  and  misery  and 
heartache  of  that  first  night  in  England  came  a  shaft 
of  light.  It  was  not  of  the  moon's  rays,  a  warmer  light, 
that  sent  a  glow  through  my  frame.  It  was  a  convic- 
tion, the  more  to  be  accepted  in  that  it  was  founded 
not  on  comfort,  but  discomfort,  an  illuminating  belief 
that  this  hideous  chaos,  this  reversal  of  the  glass,  was 
ALL  right! 

51 


Chapter  V 

A  Lo^^DON  Hotel. 

HOW  much  of  it  rests  with  me  to  make  it  all 
right  I  am  yet  to  find  out.  One  step  at  a  time. 
At  least  I  have  already  found  out  that  some 
of  it  musthe  me.  Once,  in  England,  civility  was  handed 
me  on  a  platter,  asking  nothing  in  exchange.  Now  I 
must  earn  it. 

I  arose  the  next  morning  with  the  firm  intention 
of  making  myself  liked.  To  be  sure,  I  had  no  success 
with  the  Crab,  who  said  if  I  didn't  care  for  my  room 
there  were  plenty  who  did.  A  room-famished  naval 
officer,  who  was  standing  back  of  me,  was  decent 
enough  to  whisper,  ''Don't  give  up  the  room,"  the 
phrase  coming  natural  to  him,  no  doubt,  with  the  pre- 
cept of  our  own  Commodore  Perry  in  his  mind.  He 
knew,  and  I  am  beginning  to  know,  that  there  aren't 
any  rooms  in  London.  He  had  put  an  advertisement 
in  the  papers,  offering  five  pounds  to  any  one  who 
could  find  him  comfortable  quarters,  for  he  had  no 
time  or  legs,  or  other  means  of  perambulation,  to  look 
for  lodgings.  He  was  philosophic,  however.  He  as- 
sured me  that  there  are  over  twenty  thousand  hotel 
bedrooms  now  occupied  as  war  offices,  and  when  these 
hotels  are  released  and  the  Swiss  proprietors  (every 
one  is  Swiss  nowadays)  could  take  them  over  the 
problem  would  be,  in  a  measure,  solved.  ''Live,  horse, 
till  spring,  and  grass  will  grow." 

We  talked  to  each  other  without  ceremony.     All 

52 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

the  guests  in  the  hotel  are  herded  in  a  common  bond 
of  misery.  The  breakfast  sausages  are  cold,  or  bad, 
or  ''run  out."  I  never  knew  such  sausages  for  gadding. 
But  in  my  pursuit  of  being  accepted  as  an  agreeable 
person  I  beamed  upon  and  tipped  the  waiter,  who 
stole  two  lumps  of  sugar  for  me  from  some  guest  who 
had  left  the  cover  off  his  canister.  People  wander 
through  the  hotel  halls  with  a  jar  of  marmalade  in 
one  hand  and  a  little  sugar  packet  in  the  other.  One 
gets  very  sticky  in  brushing  past  them. 

When  I  at  last  ventured  forth  into  the  rain  and 
snow  to  report  at  my  English  manager's  office  I  un- 
doubtedly made  the  girl  bus  conductor  like  me  by 
my  open  admiration  of  her  little  patent-leather  bon- 
net. She  was  the  cheeriest  person,  punching  tickets 
with  blue,  cracked  hands.  '"Nk  you — 'nk  you,"  with 
each  ticket,  which  brought  tears  of  gratitude  to  my 
eyes. 

''Hurry  on,"  she  admonished,  and  "Off  you  go" 
to  a  clinging  one  when  the  bus  was  full.  Ringing  the 
bell  if  she  was  below,  and  stamping  with  her  boot,  as 
heavier  boots  stamped  in  the  old  days,  when  she  was 
collecting  on  top.  Alert,  firm,  and  uncomplaining. 
One  low  youth  must  have  whispered  to  her  something 
more  or  less  indecent.  But  she  jerked  her  thumb  up- 
ward.   "Gaow  on  up,"  was  her  only  response. 

A  woman  passenger's  eye  met  mine.  "A  girl  con- 
ductor killed  a  man  in  the  Mile  End  Road  for  not 
much  more  than  that,"  she  remarked. 

"Good  job,  too,"  cheerfully  commented  an  old  gen- 
tleman opposite. 

I  have  found  that  we  talk  together  in  the  buses 
now.  But  the  talk  is  largely  composed  of  growls — 
growls,  for  some  reason,  directed  against  the  govern- 

53 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

ment.  On  my  second  bus  of  the  day  an  old  man  was 
acting  as  conductor,  his  locomotion  slow  and  painful. 

''He's  suffering,"  a  friendly  fat  woman  confided  to 
me.  ''An  old  man  goin'  up  them  stairs!  But  a  body 
must  get  wot  'e  can  these  d'ys." 

"I  thought  there  was  a  great  shortage  of  men 
for  jobs,"  I  protested. 

"That's  what  the  government  s'ys — sittin'  in  their 
warm  offices!" 

I  might  have  believed  her  if  she  had  not  called  the 
offices  warm.  I  knew  then  she  was  a  disturber.  Rather, 
that  she  was  a  disturber  until  the  old  conductor, 
whom  she  had  been  pitying,  gave  her  a  laying-out  for 
pulhng  the  bell  at  the  wrong  time.  He  may  have  been 
weak  on  his  legs,  but  his  language  was  still  forcible. 
She  got  out — got  down — blackguarding  him  as  freely 
as  she  had  upheld  him,  and  moved  toward  the  aristo- 
cratic district  as  her  natural  habitat. 

While  they  may  snarl  at  each  other,  or  against  the 
others,  something  very  nice  happened  on  the  first 
morning  on  our  crowded  bus.  (Five  standing  inside 
during  war-times.)  A  boy  in  bright -blue  clothes,  a 
tan  overcoat,  and  scarlet  four-in-hand  tie  swung  him- 
self on  with  difficulty.  He  carried  one  arm  in  a  cradle, 
but  he  was  strong  on  his  feet.  Yet  the  man  and  woman 
nearest  the  door  both  rose  simultaneously,  not  with 
the  smallest  expression  on  their  faces  which  would 
suggest  they  were  offering  their  places  to  him,  but 
just  getting  up  because  they  were  tired  of  sitting  down. 
The  boy  took  the  man's  seat,  and  his  benefactor  stared 
fiercely  at  the  boot-polish  advertisement  that  he 
might  not  be  thanked. 

I  poked  the  woman  by  me  in  my  far  corner.  "Is  he 
a  soldier?" 

54 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

"'Orspital  case — thousands  of  'em — thousands.  It's 
well  to  put  'em  in  blue.   We  can't  forget  so  quick." 

I  sat  back,  feeling  a  little  white.  I  had  forgotten 
that  I  must  meet  the  mutilated  on  the  London  streets. 
I  peered  out  through  the  window  which  gave  a  view 
of  Trafalgar  Square.  The  color  of  khaki  stamped  the 
scene — it  was  the  prevailing  note — but  three  soldiers 
in  blue  were  making  their  way  through  the  crowd — 
through  the  crowd  which  made  way  for  them — as  there 
were  but  three  legs  for  the  lot  of  them. 

The  police  wished  my  picture  that  first  day,  and  I 
contributed  to  their  Rogues'  Gallery  one  whose  crimi- 
nality betrayed  itself  in  every  feature.  It  was  taken 
in  the  Strand  at  one  of  those  places  where  photographs 
are  made  while  you  wait— that  is,  if  you  are  patient 
and  have  nothing  to  do  but  wait.  In  the  interval  I 
returned  from  the  police  station  to  fill  a  blank  which 
was  handed  me.  I  was  not  allowed  to  make  it  out  at 
the  station  itself,  which  I  could  easily  have  done,  for 
fear  of  adding  to  the  congestion.  I  must  go  forth  into 
a  traffic-striking  world,  buy  pen  and  ink,  and  in  some 
remote  spot,  where  there  would  be  no  congestion,  write 
down  everything  that  was  already  in  the  passport. 

I  don't  know  why  I  should  have  attempted  to  do 
this  filling  out  in  an  eating-house.  Restaurants  are 
places  in  which  to  fill  up,  and  as  they  are  opened  but 
a  short  time  in  the  middle  of  the  day,  every  one  was 
intent  upon  doing  it  to  the  exclusion  of  all  pre-war 
interests,  such  as  reading  a  paper  or  giving  one  time 
and  space  to  write  down  age  and  occupation  with 
newly  acquired  pen  and  ink. 

As  my  morning  sausage  was  ''out"  when  I  called  for 
it — or  on  it — I  was  so  ravenous  as  to  order  a  steak 
in  the  most  dishonest  fashion.    I  was  unintentionally 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

dishonest,  but  the  waitress  had  gone  off  to  "holler" 
down  tubes  before  I  realized  I  had  secured  no  meat 
coupons  from  the  Control  and  was  conmiitting  an 
offense. 

I  did  not  appreciate  this  error  until  I  saw  the  man 
at  the  next  table  give  the  waitress  a  very  pretty 
pink  coupon  out  of  a  dirty  book  when  she  brought 
him  some  roast  beef.  The  beef  portion  was  about  the 
size  of  the  coupon,  and  my  sense  of  guilt  grew  heavier 
as  I  wondered  how  many  pink  slips  I  ought  to  give 
up-^had  I  any — for  a  rump  steak,  probably  four  by 
eight  inches.  Early  nursery  rhymes  went  through 
my  mind,  which  in  no  way  helped  the  situation: 
"^Tiat!  Lost  your  mittens,  you  naughty  kittens, 
now  you  shall  have  no  pie,"  beat  in  my  brain.  I  had 
a  vision  of  the  attendants  carrying  back  the  steak, 
annoyedly,  if  I  weakly  explained  I  had  lost  my 
ration-book.  Then  some  important-looking  person 
would  step  forward  to  ask  for  my  identity-card,  which 
was  not  yet  made  out,  as  I  had  just  arrived,  and  the 
whole  dreadful  story  of  my  deception  would  be  re- 
vealed. I  had — I  never  had  had — a  ration-book. 
Every  one  in  the  restaurant  would  look  at  me — 
''Eating  up  our  beef  with  her  American  tricks!" 

I  thought,  too,  as  I  waited  there  consciously,  of 
the  men  who  order  a  meal  in  the  Bowery  eating- 
houses  and  devour  it  before  they  confess  they  have 
no  money.  They  know  they  are  going  to  be  mauled 
by  the  bouncers  (and  one  man  was  kicked  to  death), 
but  they  eat  because  they  are  starving,  nature's  last 
protest,  eat  miserably  as  the  inevitable  beating  looms 
ahead  of  them. 

While  I  knew  I  should  not  be  kicked — at  least,  not 

hard — I  dismissed  the  idea  of  eating  up  the  steak 

56 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

before  confessing  that  my  rations  had  not  been  issued. 
And  I  really  did  not  know  what  to  do  (for  all  rules 
take  on  a  vast  importance  when  one  first  enters  a 
country)  until  a  pretty  girl  asked  if  she  might  sit 
down  opposite  me.  Then  I  remembered  how  pleasant 
every  one  out  of  my  terrible  hotel  had  been  to  me 
that  morning,  even  though  wet  and  walking,  and  I 
simply  told  the  girl  all. 

She  said  it  was  not  in  the  least  ''frightening," 
and  immediately  gave  me  a  pink  coupon  of  hers,  which 
she  assured  me  she  could  very  well  spare,  as  beef 
was  so  expensive.  A  few  years  ago  an  English  gu'l 
would  not — could  not — have  made  that  confession, 
so  I  did  what  I  should  never  have  dared  a  few  years 
ago  myself.  When  the  steak  came  I  shrieked  hoarsely 
over  its  vast  proportions  and  begged  her  to  accept 
a  bit  of  it.    But  I  had  overstepped  the  times! 

However,  she  was  willing  to  talk  to  me,  following 
the  innovation  which  I  have  already  recognized  in 
buses  and  on  street-corners,  and  of  this  innovation 
itself  I  spoke  to  her — with  happiness.  She  admitted 
it.  She  was  young  enough  not  to  be  annoyed  over 
this  breaking  through  the  crust  of  custom,  even 
though  she  had  not  reached  the  point  when  she  could 
share  my  meat. 

"I  dare  say  it  comes  from  our  directing  soldiers 
so  frequently,  and  talking  to  each  other  in  the  street 
over  the  wisdom  of  the  directions  we  are  giving. 
Then  the  air  raids  brought  us  together — hours  passed 
in  the  tubes  or  in  the  houses  of  perfect  strangers. 
We  were  the  oddest  mixture,  murderers,  no  doubt, 
and  cabbies,  and  flower-sellers,  and  awfully  well- 
dressed  women  coming  from  parties,  all  in  one  church 

portico,  for  instance." 

57 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

"What  a  chance,"  I  said  to  her — I  spoke  jerkily, 
between  fierce  dental  attacks  upon  the  steak — "what 
a  chance  for  a  second  (chew,  chew)  Decameron!  It 
was  the  plague  which  gathered  (chew)  that  brilliant 
company  together  (chew,  chew,  chew).  What  if  each 
individual  in  that  portico  had  told  his  or  her  life 
story  (four  chews),  with  that  thundering  terror  over- 
head (down  the  red  lane  at  last!),  and  all  of  them  in- 
duced to  complete  the  revelation  by  the  unity  of 
common  impending  death?  Funny  some  writer  doesn't 
do  that!" 

The  young  lady  looked  at  me  slightly  askance. 
"I  don't  suppose  they  would  print  them  in  these 
days — stories  like  the  Decameron."  She  blushed  deli- 
cately. ''I  have  heard  about  them,  but  we  cut  them 
out  when  we  came  to  Italian  literature." 

I  endeavored  to  console  her.  ''Well,  the  plots 
would  be  different;  you  see,  those  people  were  Latin." 

Her  brow  cleared.  "Of  course,  English  stories  would 
be  different,  wouldn't  they?"  Dear  British  child! 
Accommodating  herself  as  bravely  as  she  could  to 
an  earthquaking  age,  yet  with  a  belief  that  its 
morals  and  manners  were  not  of  the  mild  Quattro- 
cento. 

She  brought  a  blush  all  my  own  to  older  cheeks 
when  I  caught  her  smiling  eyes  as  I  asked  for  cream 
on  the  rice-pudding.  "I  can  do  very  well  without  it," 
I  hastily  assured  her. 

"I  hear  you  have  everything  you  want  in  the 
States,  so  I  fancy  it  will  be  fearfully  hard  for  you  in 
England." 

I  wouldn't  have  it  that  it  was  hard,  and  I  wouldn't 

have  it  that  we  had  everything  we  wanted.     Then, 

and  since  then,  I  have  found  myself  pitifully  eager 

58 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

to  have  been  a  sufferer  in  the  war,  and  rather  to  boast 
of  the  sufferings.  Various  exaggerations  creep  into 
my  story  of  our  self-denials.  New  York  offices  in 
which  I  worked  grew  colder  and  colder  in  the  telling 
(and  goodness  knows  they  were  cold  enough  on  those 
awful  Mondays  with  zero  weather  outside).  Wheat, 
according  to  me  in  London,  went  out  of  my  life  long 
before  we  ever  thought  of  a  war.  And  as  for  sugar 
— I  rolled  up  my  eyes  (she  had  accepted  one  of  the 
lumps  of  sugar  I  had  providentially  carried  with  me) 
— I  could  not  complete  the  sentence.  I  was  so  over- 
come by  the  recollection  of  the  sugar  conditions. 

''Surely  you  had  plenty  of  sugar?"  she  asked. 

''We  had  none."  I  could  say  this  very  simply, 
without  any  frills  in  the  voice,  as  it  was  nearer  the 
absolute  fact  than  anything  I  had  yet  told  her. 

"But  wasn't  there  any?" 

"There  was  plenty." 

"Who  got  it?" 

"You  did." 

"Oh,  I  say!    I  presume  the  penalties  were  severe?" 

"No,  we  were  simply  asked  not  to  use  it."  I  tried 
to  be  casual,  but  wicked  pride  was  bursting  out 
through  every  pore. 

"Extraordinary!"  granted  the  young  lady.  "Ex- 
traordinary!" 

At  one  time  I  thought  it  was  pretty  fine  myself, 
but  now  that  I  am  over  here  I  find  that  it  was  just 
child's  play.  I  wanted  to  tell  her,  too,  that  I  felt 
I  was  just  a  child  to  her — a  child  in  experience  and 
understanding  and  control.  But  with  all  that,  she 
was  so  shy  and  young  she  would  have  believed  me  to 
be  eccentric,  which  is  unforgivable  to  youth.  "Young- 
er than  I  am,  and  with  white  hair!"  she  would  have 

59 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

inwardly  commented,  and  put  me  down  as  a  vain 
person. 

By  nightfall  I  had  returned  to  the  police  station 
of  my  district,  and  took  my  turn  in  the  little  room, 
which  was  small,  yet,  unlike  those  chambers  appro- 
priated for  the  same  uses  in  Latin  countries,  was  not 
overpowering  with  the  smell  of  humanity.  Next  to 
a  manor  farm-house  in  France,  there  is  nothing  to 
touch  a  post-ofEce  or  prefecture  for  ancient,  unchanged 
air. 

There  were  three  amiable  constables  in  attendance 
— perhaps  I  should  say  police  officials — variously 
permitting  bold  spirits  to  go  to  Birmingham;  ad- 
monishing a  lady  who  had  changed  her  address  with- 
out immediate  notification;  trying  to  figure  what 
could  be  done  for  a  Dutchman  who  had  lost  his  pass- 
port, and  who,  as  far  as  any  one  could  see,  could 
neither  leave  England  nor  live  in  it;  going  endlessly 
through  their  routine  with  meticulous  suavity. 

In  spite  of  my  photograph  I  did  not  feel  guilty 
when  my  turn  came.  The  London  police  never  ter- 
rorize me.  They  suggest,  in  the  discharge  of  their 
duties,  that  they  are  on  my  side  so  long  as  I  behave 
myself,  and  that  they  would  rather  I'd  be  good  than 
bad — that  it  would  be  more  convenient  to  them  if  I 
remained  good. 

In  America,  as  each  policeman  enters  upon  his  daily 
duties,  he  glares  around  him  as  though  eager  for  a 
fight.  Figuratively,  he  carries  a  meat-ax  in  one  hand 
and  a  book  of  ''Don'ts"  in  the  other.  I  don't  know 
who  first  defined  the  district  that  the  policeman  con- 
trols as  ''beats,"  but  it  suitably  expresses  the  watch- 
word of  their  majesties.  Yet  a  New  York  policeman 
will  give  you  as  much  assistance,  if  you  need  it,  as  a 

60 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

constable  in  London,  and  a  good  deal  more  general 
information.  I  suppose  it  is  because  our  men  are 
largely  mustered  from  the  left  of  the  Irish  Channel 
(facing  north),  while  the  bobby  comes  from  the  right. 

The  officer  who  took  me  in  charge  (you  understand 
me,  I  hope?)  said,  while  preparing  my  identification- 
book,  that  his  wife  and  little  boy  came  through  the 
air  raids  all  right.  The  information  was  offered  me 
out  of  a  clear  sky — indeed,  I  suppose  an  air-raid  talk 
should  come  from  a  clear  sky.  However,  his  neigh- 
bor's missis  and  her  little  girl — the  one  on  his  left; 
the  neighbor  on  his  right  was  a  widower — those  two 
were  fair  subjects  for  a  mad'ouse.  The  little  girl 
couldn't  sleep  without  an  umbrella  over  her  'ead.  ''In 
a  manner  o'  speakin',"  he  completed,  ''you  must  fight 
being  afraid,  just  as  you've  got  to  fight  everything 
else  that  you  don't  want  to  get  you.  Here's  your 
book,  madam;  carry  it  everywhere,  and  if  you  change 
your  address  be  sure  to  tell  me." 

He  was  a  very  nice  young  man,  and  I  decided  to 
change  my  address  and  keep  him  informed  just  as 
soon  as  somebody  died  somewhere  in  London  so  that 
I  could  get  the  room  vacated  by  the  corpse. 

I  continued  my  reflections  as  I  mounted  a  bus 
and  swayed  uncertainly  on  the  top  of  it.  There  was 
no  room  to  sit  down,  but  I  was  lucky  to  get  any 
kind  of  a  lift.  The  great  delivery-vans  of  the  drapers' 
shops  were  taking  their  clerks  home  from  work.  Open 
drays  were  packed  with  city  men.  The  few  taxis 
had  their  flags  hooded,  as  though  they  would  never 
need  to  signal  a  lack  of  custom  again.  Private  cars 
were  even  more  rare,  and  when  the  crowd  on  our 
bus  would  discover  a  big  limousine  with  a  single  oc- 
cupant they  would  hoot  derisively. 

61 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

I  thought  of  our  surface-car  strike  in  New  York 
City  in  1916,  and  of  the  packed  motors  of  the  rich 
as  they  gave  the  working-girls  a  Uft  if  they  were  going 
in  the  same  direction.  And  I  also  thought  of  the 
placards  even  now  pasted  on  the  windshields  of  our 
private  motors:  "A  soldier  is  welcome."  And  of  the 
many  uniformed  boys  who  clung  to  hospitable  run- 
ning-boards. 

And  suddenly,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  I  grew 
homesick,  and  had  to  drive  back  the  tears  so  that  the 
Britishers,  who  had  many  better  reasons  for  crying, 
should  not  see  me.  I  was  perplexed  over  being  home- 
sick. Hitherto,  it  has  always  seemed  to  me  that  the 
brown  earth  was  our  home,  and  nationality  but  a 
trick  to  keep  people  safely  herded.  Now  I  wanted  a 
flag  to  wear  in  my  hat! 

I  have  continued  feeling  this  way,  and  I  am  not 
sorry,  except  that  this  sudden  localization  of  my  af- 
fections may  not  grant  me  the  open  mind  which  has 
been  pleasing  to  foreigners  when  I  write  of  their 
patria.  However,  I  reflect,  if  my  country  appears 
to  be  absolutely  the  best  to  me,  every  one  else's  country 
must  be  absolutely  the  best  to  him,  and  the  Englander 
would,  ^vay  down  in  his  heart,  think  me  horrid  if  I 
let  my  own  land  suffer  greatly  by  comparison — even 
though  what  I  may  say  of  his  island  is  not  always 
pleasing  to  his  palate.  So,  since  I  admit  I  am  home- 
sick, I  present  this  little  story  of  a  London-after-war 
experience  as  a  purely  prejudiced  one — the  expression 
of  an  individual.  At  least,  it  is  seen  through  the  eyes 
and  heard  through  the  ears  of  a  woman  who,  a  decade 
ago,  paid  a  British  income  tax,  and  who  felt  that  the 
privilege  of  living  in  England  was  well  worth  the 

tithe. 

62 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

Defining  my  sensations  more  closely  on  that  second 
night  in  London,  I  realized  that  I  was  feeling  the  lone- 
liness of  crowds  and  the  vacuity  of  traveling  un- 
comfortably toward  a  destination  which  held  no 
pleasing  attractions,  I  do  not  wish  to  step  aside — 
on  a  lurching  bus — to  moralize,  and  I  am  no  imper- 
sonator of  male  roles,  but  for  the  moment,  on  top  of 
that  bus,  I  was  a  tired  man  going  home  from  business 
with  a  vision  ahead  of  a  dirty  flat,  a  slatternly  wife, 
and  a  bad  dinner.  Always  before  I  have  had  some- 
thing more  or  less  pleasant  to  go  back  to — if  it  was 
only  a  sizzling  steam-heater  in  a  rented  room.  I 
had  not  thought  of  the  dull  despair  that  must  be  in 
many  a  petty  clerk's  heart  over  the  ugliness  of 
''Journey's  End."  Small  wonder  they  drop  off  at  the 
corner  saloon.  Had  my  impersonation  of  the  male 
continued  vivid,  I  might  have  invaded  a  pub.  myself, 
for  the  bars  were  just  open,  and  a  bucket  brigade 
was  pouring  steadily  through  the  doors. 

I  was  not  entirely  alone,  however.  I  had  one  com- 
panion that  seldom  left  me.  Fear  now  stalked  by 
my  side,  crept  under  my  umbrella,  froze  my  hot- 
water  bag  at  night — fear  of  the  premiere,  still  a  week 
ahead.  And  I  had  no  one  to  "plug"  for  me — not 
even  a  two-dollar  mental  healer  to  tell  me  that  I 
knew  my  lines. 

Now  that  officer,  back  at  Bow  Street  station,  was 
proud  of  his  family  because  they  had  fought  fear. 
But,  inversely,  it  must  have  been  easier  for  them  to 
fight  because  he  ivas  proud  of  them.  I  was  alone  with 
Fear,  on  top  of  a  bus,  and  I  had  no  one  to  tell  me  to 
be  brave  or  be  proud  of  me  if  I  was.  I  had  to  do  it 
all  by  myself — and  not  get  any  compliments.  It 
occurred    to  me  that    it  wasn't  worth  while,   this 

Q3 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

continual  fighting  for  everything,  and  that  it  would 
be  much  better  to  topple  off  and  be  run  over  by  a 
rich  Imiousine  with  one  occupant.  ''Death  by  mis- 
adventure," would  be  the  comfortable  verdict,  and 
I  could  be  fairly  certain  that  the  others  on  the  bus 
would  kill  the  rich  one  in  the  limousine. 

Then,  as  I  looked  up  and  down  the  massed  street, 
with  thousands  of  us  swaying  high  in  the  air  (gro- 
tesquely like  a  crowd  of  holiday-makers  on  elephants 
at  the  Zoo),  I  thought  how  funny  it  would  be  if  this 
idea  were  to  come  simultaneously  to  every  one's  mind 
and  we  would  all  go  hopping  over  into  the  Strand, 
shouting,  "'Tain't  worth  it!"  At  this  picture  I 
laughed  out  loud,  .'so  that  the  girl  next  to  me  for  no 
reason  laughed,  too,  and  then  every  one  began  to 
laugh,  and  I  saw — saw  clearly — that  the  mere  fact 
that  they  weren't  hopping  into  the  Strand,  were  cling- 
ing to  the  top  for  dear  life,  yet  were  laughing,  showed 
that  it  was  worth  it.  So  I  decided  I  had  better  stick 
it  out  for  a  little  while  longer — if  only  out  of  curiosity 
to  see  how  I  am  going  to  end! 


Chapter  VI 

A  London  Hotel. 

'HY  do  we  rail  at  the  poor  because  they 
are  dirty  and  ill-smelling?  Why  do  we 
say  that  any  one  can  keep  clean?  Curious, 
that  I  had  to  come  to  London  to  get  an  understand- 
ing of  their  troubles.  I  have  always  considered  my- 
self fairly  well  in  touch  with  their  miseries.  There  is 
just  one  way  to  understand  cold,  and  that  is  to  be 
cold;  just  one  way  to  appreciate  the  heroism  of  the 
clean  [poor,  and  that  is  to  visualize  the  ice  in  your 
basin,  as  you  shiver  in  your  bed — and  put  off  the 
bath  till  the  morrow. 

Certain  pioneer  mothers  will  now  say  they  always 
broke  the  ice  in  their  basins — after  shaking  the  snow 
off  the  bed-quilt  which  had  crept  in  through  the  in- 
terstices of  the  log-house  (the  snow,  not  the  bed-quilt, 
crept  in).  But  certain  pioneer  mothers  went  on  down 
to  roaring  kitchen  fires.  In  all  London  there  seemed  to 
be  no  place  to  thaw  out.  Beechey,  four  miles  away  in 
Chelsea,  was  living  "pro  tern,  with  an  English  lady  who 
was  reported  to  have  a  fire.  And  within  the  last  few 
days  I  have  gone  up  there  when  any  kind  of  a  convey- 
ance offered  itself,  that  I  might  get  warm — no,  less  cold 
— at  this  grate.  By  entirely  engulfing  the  fire — keeping 
every  one  else  away  from  it — ^I  could  warm  either  the 
left  foot  or  the  right  foot,  the  left  hand  or  the  right 

hand,  the  small  of  the  back,  or — by  kneeling — my  nose. 

65 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

My  nose  continued  very  much  in  evidence.  But,  in 
the  mean  time,  the  other  excluded  parts  of  my  body 
grew  so  cold  from  the  frigidity  of  the  drawing-room 
that  it  was  hardly  worth  the  four-mile  trip. 

And  while  this  was  chilling,  the  chance  remarks  of 
Beechey  or  her  English  friend  were  even  more  dispirit- 
ing. There  was  a  gas  grate  in  the  dining-room,  but 
they  had  ''rather  outrun  their  allowance" — a  neigh- 
bor had  been  heavily  fined  last  week.  There  might 
have  been  a  more  cheerful  glow  simulating  warmth  in 
the  electroUers,  but  the  Control  thought  that  ''fifty 
units"  a  quarter  should  be  enough  for  them,  and, 
while  it  was  not  enough,  they  must  now  live  up — or 
down — to  the  allowance  and  sit  in  semi-gloom. 

In  1916  I  remember  how  I  was  afraid  of  the  army 
when  I  was  in  France — in  terror  of  disobeying  orders. 
Now  I  have  developed  a  fear  of  the  Control,  a  some- 
thing which  I  will  never  see,  but  of  which  I  have  a  very 
definite  picture.  It  is  a  huge  creature  with  millions  of 
feelers  waving  over  us  all — with  eyes  in  the  feelers. 
It  has  a  shaggy  head  which  cannot  be  turned  by  an 
attractive  hat  or  the  beseeching  eye  of  a  gray-haired 
woman.  There  is  nothing  larky  about  a  British  Con- 
trol.   It  is  an  honest  beast. 

I  don't  know  why  this  fear  did  not  enter  my  joints 

in  America  on  gasless  Sundays,   coalless  Mondays, 

beefless  Tuesdays,  and  a  generally  curtailed  existence. 

As  a  rule  we  followed  all  the  admonitions  and  when 

we  were  fined  ("we"  being  a  business  firm)  we  put 

up  repentant  posters  in  our  shop-windows  and  tried 

hard  to  be  good.    I  think  we  were  not  scared  in  the 

United  States,  because  we  knew  that  there  really  was 

enough,  somewhere  or  other,  in  our  country,  and  here 

we  know  that  not  only  is  there  not  enough  at  the  pres- 

66 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

ent,  but  that  there  hasn't  been  for  four  years.  And 
if  we  do  use  up  our  coal,  gas,  electricity,  and  food 
rations,  we  can't  get  any  more  because  there  aren't 
any  more. 

I  have  arrived  at  another  conclusion  which  ob- 
trudes itself  unpleasantly  whenever  I  grow  impatient 
with  any  conditions :  I  have  no  right  in  this  country, 
anyway.  No  alien  has  any  right  in  England  now, 
unless  he  is  on  a  war  mission.  There  are  plenty  of 
artists  over  here  who  could  keep  the  public  well  enter- 
tained. But  since  we  have  come  over,  by  jinks!  we 
must  keep  our  mouths  shut. 

I  am  keeping  mine  shut,  letting  off  steam  only  in 
these  pages,  but  I  must  confess  that  there  is  a  great 
deal  going  on  in  the  back  of  my  American  brain.  I 
am  wondering  if  one  with  means  couldn't  be  com- 
fortable over  here,  really  decently  warm,  by  the  exer- 
cise of  a  little  American  ingenuity.  These  people 
accept  their  discomforts  with  magnificent  stoicism. 
It's  a  great  quality — it  has  carried  them  through  the 
trying  hours  of  war;  but — I  dare  to  write  it  down — 
a  little  more  rebellion  and  a  little  less  acceptance 
would  have  rendered  this  nation  a  greater  service. 
RebelUon  is  healthy.  It  is  growth.  It  is  now  in  the 
air  of  the  world,  and  something  good  will  come  out 
of  it.  If  the  people  rebel  in  their  new-found  pros- 
perity over  early  civilities,  why  should  not  all 
England  rebel  over  discomforts  and,  though  old 
forms  must  be  broken  down  to  accomplish  these 
pleasant  results,  bear  in  mind  that  these  ends 
justify  the  means?  Of  course  it  is  easy  for  me  to 
say  this.  It  is  nothing  to  the  American  to  tear  down 
customs.  We  rather  enjoy  it.  It  is  like  repapering 
a  room.     The  old  design  is  soon  forgotten,  and  wc 

67 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

find  the  newer  forms  more  attractive  because  they  are 
new. 

I  wonder  if  there  would  be  any  way  of  beating  the 
game  in  a  manner  which  should  please  the  grim  Con- 
trol and  bring  comfort  to  the  individual.  Par  exemple 
we  had  no  rehearsal,  and  a  black  evening  loomed 
ahead  of  me.  I  had  tried  several  of  the  hotel  restau- 
rants, hoping  to  find  a  warm  one,  but  either  the  wait- 
ers were  on  strike  or  they  could  dine  only  their  own 
guests.  But  the  rooms  could  not  have  been  very 
warm — not  ''warm  through."  Some  of  us  may  know 
the  hall-bedroom  temperature.  First  you  think, ' '  How 
pleasant,"  then  you  take  off  your  wraps,  to  find  that 
"heated  from  the  hall"  is  your  landlady's  first  and 
last  lie. 

The  evening  was  so  unpromising  that  I  accepted 
an  invitation  to  dinner,  even  though  I  had  to  wear  a 
low  gown  and  didn't  know  the  hostess.  I  went  with 
Beechey  to  a  far  house  reached  by  short  trips  on 
many  buses  and  long  waits  on  frozen  corners. 

She  improved  my  mind  as  we  waited  on  these  cor- 
ners. She  said  one  of  the  great  English  poets  had 
lived  out  the  end  of  his  life  in  this  charming  house 
which  we  were  coming  to  some  time  or  other,  where  he 
had  been  so  comfortable  that  he  had  done  no  work 
within  its  walls.  This  appealed  to  me.  If  I  found 
the  house  to  be  as  she  represented,  I,  too,  would  give 
up  work  and  refuse  to  leave  its  pleasant  confines  until 
the  constable  carried  me  out  and  deposited  me  in 
33  bus.  Yet,  after  ten  minutes  within  its  icy  confines, 
one  would  have  thought  the  poet  could  have  there 
produced  his  most  passionate  lyrics,  if  they  had  to 
be  born  out  of  misery.  It  was  a  large  house,  and  it 
was  peopled  by  one  small,  very  pretty  lady  with  a 

68 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

cold  in  her  head  which  had  a  permanent  air  about  it. 
Her  long  halls  were  like  outdoors,  her  huge  bedroom 
a  degree  warmer,  her  large  drawing-room  fairly  com- 
fortable, and  her  great  dining-room  indescribable.  I 
had  shed  three  wraps  in  the  hall,  and  I  had  recourse 
to  them,  one  at  a  time,  as  the  dinner  progressed.  I 
would  have  enjoyed  tying  my  fur  stole  across  my  nose, 
but  feared  that  would  call  attention  to  the  chill  I 
was  undergoing. 

She  was  a  sweet  little  lady,  sniffing  and  chattering 
and  proudly  displaying  the  joint  of  cold  pork,  which 
was  all  fat — and  all  of  which  I  ate.  The  joint  had 
been  a  triumph.  I  learned  that  she  had  registered  at 
a  certain  butcher's  for  meat,  and  had  quarreled  with 
him  two  months  ago.  This  was  a  mistake,  for  no 
other  butcher  would  take  her  on  (each  butcher  is 
allowed  a  certain  amount  of  meat  by  the  Control  for 
registered  customers,  and  a  customer  can  register  but 
in  one  place).  So  she  had  been  without  any  of  the 
Controlled  meats  until  she  could  ingratiate  herself 
with  him.  She  confessed  that  she  brought  him  a 
bunch  of  flowers. 

''It  is  good,  isn't  it?"  she  kept  on  saying.  It  was 
pretty  bad,  but  I  ate  it.  I  mistook  a  bit  of  cheese  for 
butter,  in  the  course  of  the  meal,  and  tried  to  spread 
it  on  my  bit  of  bread.  It  flew  off  and  fell  on  the  floor 
and  there  was  general  consternation,  to  my  intense 
embarrassment.  I  remembered  how  casual  they  used 
to  be  when  things  went  wrong  at  table,  and  how  I 
sometimes  wondered  if  anything  would  ever  matter 
to  them.  And  now,  "Cheese  is  hard  to  get,"  one 
solemn  gentleman  reproached.  The  loss  had  one  ad- 
vantage— it  hastened  the  dinner  toward  its  end,  and 
I  am  sure  the  others  kept  looking  forward  to  their 

GO 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

return  to  the  fairly  comfortable  drawing-room  and  to 
hot  coffee,  which  my  hostess  "hoped"  we  were  going 
to  get. 

That  we  were  all  looking  forward  to  the  drawing- 
room  is  my  point.  Why  did  not  this  little  person 
close  her  barn  of  a  house,  concentrate  the  heat,  and 
live  in  one  room?  She  was  alone,  she  was  not  enter- 
taining largely,  and,  by  her  own  admission,  she  had 
only  three  gowns  left  to  her  name,  two  to  be  hung  on 
hooks  behind  the  most  modest  curtain,  and  one  to 
be  worn.  Yet  she  covered  at  least  twelve  hundred 
square  feet  in  the  daily  routine  of  dressing  and  eating. 
I  dared  suggest  that  concentration  to  her,  but,  "I 
couldn't  do  that,  could  I?"  she  bravely  sniffed.  ''The 
servants  wouldn't  like  it." 

I  did  not  adventure  farther  with  the  thought  that 
the  servants  wouldn't  like  anything  any  more,  any- 
way. But,  when  they  did  begin  to  like  things  again, 
they  would  take  flats  to  stairs,  single  rooms  to  suites, 
and  not  despise  their  mistresses  either. 

The  parlor-maid  was  already  despising  her  that 
night,  and  would  pay  no  heed  to  the  bell  which  rang 
an  appeal  or  two  for  coffee.  We  could  hear  the 
jingling  after  each  half-revolution  of  the  bell-handle. 
We  could  hear  the  potent  silence  that  followed.  It 
was  eloquent  of  the  times. 

The  little  lady  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "They 
won't  bring  it.  It's  Sunday,  and  they  won't  serve 
Sundaj^  nights.  Down  at  the  bridge  they  meet  every 
night  and  talk  of  their  wrongs — it's  awfully  creepy." 

"It's  like  the  French  Revolution,"  put  in  a  gentle- 
man, pleasantly.  "I'm  quite  calm  about  it  myself, 
as  I  am  not  an  aristocrat."  I  was  inclined  to  think  he 
was,  but  found  it  expedient  to  become  a  son  of  the 

70 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

people.  I  was  glad  I  was  an  artist — it's  only  a  step 
from  being  an  artisan.    My  head  is  safe. 

So  the  hostess  pulled  a  high-backed  sofa  up  to  the 
fire,  and  we  all  crowded  onto  it,  while  beautiful  Pre- 
Raphaelite  originals  stretched  their  long  goiter  necks 
out  of  the  picture-frames  to  look  at  us  contemptu- 
ously. For  the  women  of  the  Pre-Raphaelite  school 
are,  I  am  sure,  the  only  Britishers  who  ever  really  en- 
joyed a  frigid  atmosphere.  I  am  convinced  that  mere 
earthly  Englishmen,  who  do  not  live  on  walls,  but  on 
floors,  hate  it  as  much  as  we  do,  yet,  hating  it,  they 
accept  it.  They  nobly — no,  ignobly — do  not  complain. 

Almost  warm,  and  quite  somnolent  from  my  fat 
pork,  I  watched  those  ladies  on  the  wall,  and  tried  to 
imagine  what  they  would  look  like  if  Mr.  Burne-Jones 
had  painted  a  bus-conductor's  uniform  on  one  of 
them,  or  Mr.  Rossetti  put  a  chauffeur's  cap  on  the 
low-coiffed  hair  of  his  type,  or  Mr.  Watts  stuck  under 
the  arm  of  one  of  his  attenuated  damsels  the  smart 
little  ladder  of  the  window-washer,  who  goes  knicker- 
bockered  about  the  streets.  How  inept  those  Blessed 
Damozels  would  be  as  compared  to  the  brisk  capa- 
bilities of  to-day's  Englishwomen — girls  of  medium 
size,  brown-haired,  with  stout  legs,  and  smiling,  thin 
lips  rather  than  thick,  pouting  ones. 

I  came  back  from  the  shadows  on  the  walls  to  the 
realities  on  the  sofa.  The  guests  were  mostly  of  the 
artistic  world,  but  you  would  never  have  imagined  it 
by  their  conversational  topics.  Painting  or  paint  never 
passed  their  lips — although  rouge-sticks  and  powder 
were  openly  employed  to  cover  the  surfaces  of  the 
women's  faces.  ''Madame  Lebrun  was  always  paint- 
ing herself.    I  don't  see  why  I  shouldn't,"  one  of  the 

visitors  justified.  I  don't  know  what  the  Pre-Raphael- 
6  71 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

ite  women  would  have  thought  of  this  calm,  public- 
restoration-after-the-soup.  Since  it  is  purely  feminine, 
they  would  probably  have  condoned  it,  but  they  would 
have  been  deeply  irritated  over  the  talk.  Even  to  me 
it  was  at  first  as  the  Tower  of  Babel. 

''But  you  should  have  been  at  Margate — that  one 
week — they  simply  rained  down." 

"I  was  in  London  through  twenty-two  of  them," 
returned  Beechey,  rather  petulantly. 

"I  was  caught  one  night — my  clothes  were  pep- 
pered. A  man  running  behind  me  put  out  my  coat- 
tail." 

''Put  out  your  coattail?"  I  repeated,  sternly. 

"Burning  like  a  pre-war  match — barrage,  I  fancy," 
most  casually  from  a  guest. 

They  went  on.  No  one  paid  attention  to  any  other. 
But  the  ladies  in  the  frames  and  I  were  listening  to  all 
of  them. 

"I  spent  four  hour's  in  one  strange  house  I  was  never 
able  to  find  again — up  some  side-street" — this  from 
Beechey. 

"I  did  that  once.  They  gave  me  the  finest  drink 
of  whisky  I  ever  had  in  my  life.  Never  could  get  a 
clue  to  that  place,  either" — very  gloomily,  from  the 
gentleman  who  had  deplored  the  lost  cheese. 

"Ah,  well,"  said  the  little  hostess,  brightly,"  I'm  glad 
those  days  are  over.  When  I  found  that  arm  near  the 
bridge  I  felt — really — it  was  getting  a  little  too  thick." 

The  Pre-Raphaelite  beauties  and  the  visitor  from 
Indiana  turned  to  look  at  her.  Smiling,  smoking,  the 
little  lady  who  was  afraid  of  her  parlor-maid  went  on: 
"I  picked  it  up  and  threw  it  into  the  river.  People 
were  so  jumpy  those  days,  it  might  have  given  some 
passer-by  a  nasty  shock." 

72 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

I  looked  at  the  painted  beauties  on  the  wall.  "You 
couldn't  have  done  that/'  I  whispered  to  them. 

''Neither  could  you,"  they  retorted,  as  they  scut- 
tled back  into  their  safe,  gilded  homes. 

The  hostess  went  to  the  outer  door  with  us,  lacking 
a  servant  to  help  with  our  wraps.  A  sound  of  popping 
corks  came  up  from  the  offices  in  the  basement. 

"Oh,  I  say!"  she  chirruped.  "Those  wretched  maids 
are  opening  my  wine!  I'll  have  to  speak  to  them — I 
will,  really.  There's  always  something  terrible  to  do 
in  England!" 

"If  I  wanted  coffee,"  I  confided  to  Beechey,  in  a 
false,  happy  tone,  as  we  were  making  our  way  through 
dark  mazes  of  wet  shrubbery  to  the  garden  gate,  "I 
would  have  it,  if  I  had  to  carry  it  up  myself." 
"Oh,  no,  you  wouldn't,"  returned  Beechey. 
"Well,  then,  I  will  know  the  reason  why." 
"How  are  you  going  to  find  that  out?" 
"By  experience,"  I  said,  glibly;  "I'll  take  a  house." 
Beechey  stopped  short,  her  umbrella  gouging  at 
me.   "Take  a  house!    You  poor  girl!" 

"Why  'poor  gM'?"  still,  liking  the  "girl." 
"It  would  be  one  horrible  first  night  every  day." 
At  that  the  awful  misery  of  the  coming  prxfniere 
came  rushing  over  me.  It  had  been  crowded  out  for 
a  little,  "for  want  of  space."  I  found  myself  repeating 
my  lines  under  my  breath,  and  making  strange 
grimaces,  which  I  turned  into  yawns  if  any  one  in 
the  bus  caught  me.  The  only  topic  of  thought  which 
seemed  successfully  to  dislodge  that  new  part  audits 
attending  agonies  from  my  mind  were  momentary 
visions  of  a  small,  warm  house  and  a  maid  (who  called 
me  "modom")  bringing  up  the  Sunday-evening  coffee. 


Chapter  VII 

At  the  Housekeeper's. 

'ELL,  it  is  over.  The  first  night  is  over. 
I  spoke  all  my  lines.  We  are  a  success. 
The  morning  papers  are  heaped  about 
me.  I  am  in  bed.  There  is  a  fire  in  my  room.  It  is 
a  very  small  room.  I  cannot  unpack  my  trunks,  but 
I  don't  care.  The  first  night  is  over,  and  I  have  a 
fire  in  my  room. 

I  appreciate  that  I  should  have  been  more  cheerful 
in  the  earher  chapters,  or,  at  least,  given  the  reader 
some  encouragement  that  a  good  time  was  coming. 
Not  that  she  (all  my  readers  are  ''she")  cares  a  whoop 
about  my  comfort,  but  that  reading  of  miseries  may 
momentarily  destroy  her  peace— the  way  those  cheer- 
ful Russian  and  Scandinavian  dramas  affect  us.  We 
aren't  &  moujik  or  a  Swedish  pastor's  daughter,  but 
no  Russian  or  Scandinavian  writer  has  fulfilled  his 
mission  unless  he  makes  us  feel  as  wretched  as  those 
of  whom  he  writes.  My  only  hope  is  that  my  limita- 
tions as  a  liiterateur  will  preserve  any  possible  readers 
from  discomfort. 

Remember,  also,  that  in  the  fourth  chapter  I  said 
it  was  going  to  be  all  right.  This  is  called  ''sustaining 
the  interest."  There  were  hours,  before  I  got  into  my 
theater,  when  I  would  have  taken  even  that  back,  had 
I  not  feared  my  gloom  would  affect  the  sale  of  this 
book.    In  those  moments  I  had  not  counted  on  the 

74 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

playhouse  as  an  institution,  and  on  the  men  who  form 
its  working  crew  in  England,  and  the  women  who 
wait  upon  j^ou.  We  had  not  been  able  to  use  our  own 
theater  for  the  first  few  days'  work,  as  a  big  produc- 
tion was  on,  playing  matinees  daily,  and  in  the  morn- 
ing rehearsing  its  own  road  companies — companies 
for  the  provinces,  as  they  would  say. 

But  from  that  day  when  I  came,  wan  and  nipped, 
to  the  stage-door  I  began  to  thaw.  I  did  not  thaw 
from  warmth,  but  kindness.  The  stage-door  keeper, 
as  fat  as  Falstaff — a  retired  policeman — welcomed 
me  with  strange  rumblings,  and  the  great  bare  stage 
opened  wide  arms  of  hospitality.  Inmiediately  my 
brain  grew  orderly — I  was  in  my  own  milieu  again. 
The  business  man  must  feel  this  when  he  comes  back 
from  his  hectic  holiday.  Everywhere  there  was  pre- 
cision and  peace  and  courtesy. 

Surely  the  last  to  relinquish  the  manners  of  other 
times  will  be  this  old  house  of  three  centuries  of 
drama.  Yet  what  an  array  of  changing  fashions  it 
has  witnessed!  White  wigs — wigs  of  every  kind — to 
quite  honestly  acknowledged  baldish  heads ;  panniered 
gowns  standing  alone  in  their  brocaded  glory  to  our 
scant,  abbreviated,  modern  frocks,  which  one  can 
carry  in  a  purse;  gorgeous  gold-laced  coats  and  silken 
knee-breeches  to  a  strange  mustard-colored  cloth 
which  the  earlier  stage  heroes  never  knew  as  khaki. 
Patches,  patchouli,  coaches  at  the  stage-door,  gal- 
lants in  the  greenroom,  to  to-day's  simple,  pleasant 
order  of  a  sober  people  in  their  workshop. 

Falstaff  had  a  small  electric  heater  in  his  little 
cubicle,  and  here  I  was  to  be  found  between  my 
scenes,  absorbing  its  radiation  like  a  vampire.  Strictly 
speaking,  or  even  loosely  speaking,  the  stage  was  not 

75 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

aglow  with  anything  but  good  will.  This  is  the 
weather  when  the  English  lakes  are  frozen  over  for 
the  first  time  in  twenty-four  years,  when  the  ice  in 
the  water-trough  at  Hyde  Park  Corner  has  to  be 
broken  for  the  horses  more  than  once  a  day,  when 
old  people,  the  papers  record,  are  dying  in  their 
houses  from  exhaustion,  occasioned  by  excessive  cold. 
So,  while  I  in  no  way  reproach  the  single  radiator 
on  the  stage  (encaged  in  strong  wire,  to  keep  any  one 
from  falhng  against  it  and  getting  frost-bitten),  which 
was  supposed  to  heat  three  hundred  and  sixty  thou- 
sand cubic  feet  of  open  space,  I  do  not  feel  that  it 
greatly  changed  any  part  of  my  circulation  except 
the  heart.  I  hke  to  see  a  brave  little  old  heater  like 
that  doing  its  best  to  give  the  foreigners  what  they 
want.  The  entente  cordiale  could  not  be  better  main- 
tained than  by  warming  up  the  Americans.  Unlike 
most  radiators  of  its  age,  it  was  not  noisy  in  its  heated 
demonstrations.  It  did  not  begin  to  beat  the  Dead 
March  from  "  Saul"  in  your  comedy  scenes  nor  snap 
at  you  every  time  you  opened  your  mouth  while  ap- 
proaching the  emotional  climaxes  in  the  play.  Nor 
had  it  aspirations  to  be  a  drummer  or  a  boiler-factory. 
Many  a  radiator  in  our  newest  theaters  at  home  could 
learn  a  lesson  in  deportment  from  its  retiring  behavior. 
It  did  not  feel  it  was  the  whole  show.  It  was  an 
aristocrat  in  aristocratic  surroundings,  and  no  doubt 
before  the  war  used  for  its  motto  that  potent  one 
adopted  by  certain  members  of  English  royalty, 
"Ich  dien."  If  I  am  not  mistaken,  there  is  German 
lettering  on  its  side.  But  let  this  go  no  farther.  They 
might  uproot  and  cast  it  forth,  and — if  I  hang  for  it 
— I  will  never  look  upon  a  steam  radiator  in  action, 
no  matter  what  its  birthplace,  as  an  enemy  ahen. 

76 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

There  were  two  beautiful  results  from  crouching 
over  Falstaff's  electric  stove.  So  that,  upon  reflec- 
tion, I  am  inclined  to  accept  the  heater  as  a  fire-pro- 
ducing modern  magic,  with  Falstaff  as  a  modern 
fairy.  The  first  result  was  Mrs.  Renn,  and  the  magic 
worked  in  this  fashion:  I  bent  low  over  the  white- 
hot  wires,  while  the  fat  fairy  bmnbled.  To  those  who 
do  not  believe  in  fairies  his  strange  growls  would  have 
been  a  greeting  to  some  one  on  the  other  side  the  glass 
door,  but  I  know  that  he — she — well,  the  fairy,  was 
saying,  "Abracadabra,"  or  whatever  the  incanta- 
tion is. 

At  any  rate,  straightway  after  these  cavernous 
sounds  I  looked  up,  and  there,  on  the  other  side  of 
the  glass  door,  was  a  very  pleasant  little  woman, 
gazing  at  me  sympathetically.  ''One  of  the  cold 
Americans,"  she  was  thinking,  no  doubt.  Also,  for 
she  had  a  kind  heart,  ''How  sorry  I  am  for  her — 
so  far  from  her  home." 

"And  who  is  that?"  I  said  to  the  fat  fairy. 

"That  is  a  dresser,  madam." 

"Can  she  dress  me?" 

"She  can." 

"I  have  a  dresser!"  And  I  rose  and  went  out  to 
talk  to  Mrs.  Renn. 

I  longed  to  say  to  her  immediately  after  she  had 
told  me  her  name  that  I  should  have  spelled  it  Wren, 
but  I  knew  I  must  control  my  fancies  when  talking 
first  with  English  dressers.  It  doesn't  do  to  be  thought 
"extraordinary,"  or  to  have  her  tell  it  about  that 
"she  does  go  on."  Yet  I  feel  I  can  soon  take  a  chance 
mth  Mrs.  Renn,  and  indulge  myself  in  some  of  my 
American  vagaries  of  doubtful  humor,  even  if  she 
does  not  understand  me. 

77 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

She  doesn't  understand  me  up  to  the  present  writing 
when  I  am  talking  very  plainly  about  hooks  and  floor- 
cloths and  dry  rouge.  That  is  because  she  is  not  ac- 
customed to  the  American  voice,  so  lacking  in  modu- 
lation. And  I  find  myself  putting  cadences  into  my 
tones  that  I  may  make  myself  plain^to  her — British 
cadences  which  would  drive  my  Hoosier  relatives  wild. 

She  herself  speaks  with  a  rolling  r  that  is  absolutely 
unlike  ours,  although  we  of  the  Middle  West  also 
employ  it.  I  am  glad  that  she  is  from  Somersetshire, 
and  has  not  the  enormous  acuteness  of  the  cockney 
— you  might  call  it  cuteness  in  America,  and  let  it 
go  at  that.  One  is  happy  to  have  margarine  when 
one  cannot  have  butter,  but  it  is  artificial,  and  while 
the  life  of  the  player  is  supposed  to  be  largely  false, 
I  think  we  are  happier — more  at  home — when  we 
are  with  extremely  real  people. 

But  what  I  got  hold  of  most  firmly,  on  getting  hold 
of  Mrs.  Renn  (I  shall  have  to  write  her  down  as  Mrs. 
Wren,  for  I  cannot  call  her  Jenny,  which  happens 
to  be  her  darling  name,  as  theater  dressers  have  the 
same  place  in  the  social  scale  as  housekeepers,  who 
are  always  ''Mrs."  whether  married  or  no) — on 
getting  hold  of  Mrs.  Wren  is  the  conviction  that  most 
of  my  warmth  over  here  will  have  to  come,  not  from 
material  sources,  but  from  fine  spiritual  emanations 
which  kindle  responsive  fires  in  my  own  breast.  It 
will  be  up  to  me  to  get  warm,  just  as  it  is  up  to  me  to 
receive  civil  treatment.  If  I  deserve  it,  I  can  have  it. 
When  Mrs.  Wren  and  I  visited  the  dressing-room 
which  was  assigned  to  me  (she  was  very  happy  be- 
cause it  was  the  large  room  with  the  chaise-longue, 
while  I  should  have  preferred  the  small  room  with  the 
ottoman,    which    was   more   in   proportion    to    the 

78 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

diminutive  heater),  I  realized  that  it  was  my  kindly- 
dresser  who  would  warm  me  up  more  than  the  small 
pipe-organ  effect  in  the  corner.  And  while  I  will 
have  to  work  hard  for  everything,  all  response  will 
come  more  easily  in  the  playhouse  than  out  of  it. 

I  felt  very  comfortable  about  the  theater  on  my 
first  day's  rehearsals.  I  appreciated  anew  that  I  had 
some  place  to  go  each  night  that  I  would  care  about. 
And  when  one  is  forty,  ''going  on  fifty,"  to  have  one 
place  to  care  about  or  one  thing  to  do  in  every  twenty- 
four  hours  is  a  gift  from  lenient  gods.  As  I  trudged 
back  to  the  hotel  on  feet  newly  decorated  with  chil- 
blains (the  only  thing  you  can  get  for  nothing  in 
London),  I  continued  grateful.  Little  processions 
marched  across  my  mind,  with  me  at  the  head  of 
them.  Me,  very  young,  young,  and  middling  young, 
going  gladly  to  the  theater  in  earlier  years  that  I 
might  check  at  the  stage-door  some  real  grief,  to 
assume  for  three  hours  a  ''pretend"  one.  The  real 
griefs  were  waiting  for  me  when  I  went  out  again,  and 
I  would  put  my  hand  to  my  brow,  exclaiming, 
"Heaven  help  me,  how  long  must  this  suffering  go  on! " 
But  I  knew,  even  as  I  said  it,  that  the  burden  was  not 
quite  so  heavy  as  it  was  when  I  went  in  to  my  work. 
And  I  grew  to  know,  too,  paying  for  the  knowledge 
with  little  lines  round  the  eyes,  that  some  night  I  would 
come  out  and  find  il  had  wasted  away  to  nothing. 
Then  I  would  breathe  deeply  and  cry,  "Out  of 
bondage!"  also,  "Never  again!"  This  happened 
times  too  numerous  to  mention ! 

That  these  crises  were  not  important,  fading  out 
with  each  newly  acquired  despair,  goes  to  prove  that 
the  stage-door  is  a  kindly  and  motherly  old  thing, 
swinging  wide  to  let  us  weak  ones  in  and,  no  doubt, 

79 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

wearing  a  smile.  It  is  not  to  be  seen,  of  course,  but 
that  is  our  fault  if  we  do  not  know  where  to  find  the 
smile  on  a  stage-door.  The  door  is  amused  because 
ever  since  theater  entrances  were  first  brought  into 
the  world  they  have  greeted  the  same  kind  of  im- 
petuous people,  and  all  those  people  have  had  the 
same  impetuous  heartaches,  each  cause  of  the  heart- 
ache taking  on  an  enormous  significance,  as  though 
there  never  had  been,  or  would  be,  another  case  like 
it.  Yet  I  believe  there  are  fewer  scars  on  the  high- 
beating  ventricles  of  the  players  than  on  any  others 
of  us  who  stumble  through  the  world.  Possibly  be- 
cause the  actor  wears  his  heart  largely  upon  his 
sleeve,  and  sweet,  fresh  air  is  healing  to  all  wounds. 

It  was  not  until  I  reached  the  mazes  of  Holborn 
that  I  became  disagreeably  conscious  of  the  fact  that 
the  life  of  the  player  without  an  emotional  burden  to 
check  outside  the  door  might  grow  insipid,  and  if  that 
was  the  case  I  was  going  to  have  a  very  dull  time 
ahead  of  me.  I  had  eschewed  Cora's  complaint,  and 
while  I  have  some  quiet  sorrows  of  my  own,  they 
would  die  of  fright  if  left  alone  with  all  these  packages 
of  sobbing,  passionate  griefs.  I  don't  know  yet  how 
this  is  going  to  be  worked  out.  Whether  the  mere 
business  of  saving  salary,  beating  the  tax-collector, 
and  making  them  cry  ("them"  being  the  audience), 
or  making  them  laugh,  is  going  to  be  enough  to  go  on 
with.  But  just  for  an  instant  I  was  sorry  I  had 
weeded  all  Coras  out  of  my  garden. 

Then  I  saw  a  crowd  of  boys  in  uniform  going  up 

Southampton  Row,  with  their  arms  over  the  shoulders 

of  an  equal  number  of  girls.     One  girl  with  her  hat  off 

was  resting  her  head  on  her  boy's  shoulder,  and  was 

not  caring  how  cold  it  was.     This  appears  to  be  one 

80 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

of  the  conditions  of  the  times  with  which  I  will  have 
to  grapple.  And  I  wondered  if  I  had  really  eradicated 
the  Cora  weed,  or  if  I  would  not  find  it  spoiling  my 
solemn  study  of  social  economics,  choking  out  all  the 
good  little  plants  in  my  garden  of  thought.  And 
while  this  was  disconcerting  to  my  plans,  somehow  I 
felt  quite  light,  and  not  so  cold! 


xisterisks  in  a  book  generally  indicate  that  the 
author,  having  reached  the  only  interesting  scene  in 
his  story,  is  now  going  to  skip  it.  The  reader  sighs 
and  goes  on  to  find  if  the  happy  pair  have  begun 
quarreling  yet. 

My  asterisks  will  mean,  variously:  telephone,  per- 
formance, exhaustion  of  the  topic  under  discussion, 
or  a  guilty  feeling  over  the  exhaustion  of  the  reader. 
In  the  case  of  the  preceding  stars  it  was  Beechey  on 
the  telephone,  with  the  information  that  she  ''had 
it."  This  news  came  to  me  after  a  series  of  prelimi- 
naries in  which  the  telephone  exchange  first  besought 
my  number,  then  asked  me  if  I  was  there,  begged  me 
four  times  to  ''hold  on,"  again  asked  my  number,  if 
I  was  there,  and,  after  a  struggle  with  snapping  wires, 
"put  me  on"  to  Beechey. 

Beechey  wanted  to  know,  if  she  really  "had  it, 
would  I  take  it,"  and  I  said  yes,  that  I  would  take  it. 
For  I  knew  that  Beechey  was  talking  of  a  ^  ^maison- 
nette,''^ which  has  so  seductive  a  name  that  any  one 
would  take  it,  even  though  he  or  she  knew  nothing 
more  about  a  maisonnette  than  I  did.  It  was  charac- 
teristic of  Beechey  that  she  in  no  way  referred  to  the 
success  of  the  first  night.  Although  she  did  ask  me 
how  I  liked  the  leading  man — that  she  thought  him 

81 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

awfully  good.  While  wc  talk  a  great  deal  about  the 
close  rclatioiishi]-)  of  all  arts,  the  painter  is  inclined 
to  believe  that  his  exposition  of  feeling  is  the  only 
one  worth  figuring  on.  And  I  fear  my  friend  looks 
upon  the  theater  as  a  place  where  salaries  are  paid 
every  week  in  return  for  a  certain  amount  of  mechan- 
ical expenditure.  To  her  there  is  something  wrong 
about  any  art  that  brings  in  regular  wages,  and, 
according  to  this  reasoning,  Beechey  is  superlatively 
an  artist. 

But  I  am  outrunning  my  story.  You  will  be  turning 
back  to  see  if  there  are  any  asterisks  to  express  a 
lapse  of  time  cloaking  a  series  of  interesting  events 
which  might  lead  up  to  a  room  with  a  fire.  One  can 
understand  a  human  entertaining  any  proposition  in 
England  that  would  lead  to  comfortable  quarters! 
In  spite  of  the  gratifying  discovery  that  the  soul  was 
going  to  be  at  ease  through  the  kindness  of  the  stage- 
door  Falstaif  and  the  Mrs.  Wrens  of  life,  I  found  the 
outward  shell  of  me  cracking  and  the  vocal  cords 
cracking  along  with  it. 

It  is  all  very  well  for  the  ''inner  man"  to  keep 
toasty  (a  mysterious  creature  that  doesn't  have  to 
go  out  in  the  cold  and  has  no  chilblains  on  its  feet), 
but  on  the  day  of  the  dress  rehearsal  I  managed  to 
croak  out  to  Falstaff  that  I  could  not,  would  not,  open 
the  following  night,  unless  I  could  get  the  chill  out 
of  my  system.  And  at  that,  feeling  sorry  for  myself, 
I  would  have  drowned  the  fire  in  the  electric  heater 
if  it  had  not  been  magic  fire,  by  a  sudden  flood  of 
tears — which  would  hiiye  been  frozen  if  they  had 
not  been  salt.  It  was  here  that  the  fat  fairy  performed 
a  second  miracle.  His  'modus  operandi  this  time  ex- 
hibited itself  more  by  a  bodily  effort  than  words,  for 

82 


AN  AIMERICAN'S  LONDON 

he  lumbered  up  many  flip;hts  of  steps,  I  sniveling 
beliind  him,  till  wc  ciimc  to  a  surprise  room,  as  though 
part  of  the  fairy  spectacle  left  over  from  a  Christmas 
pantomime. 

It  was  small,  with  sun  streaming;-  through  its  single 
window  (and  I  am  sure  no  sun  was  shining  through 
other  windows),  a  canary  was  singing  in  a  gay  little 
cage,  and  a  fire  was  glowing  in  an  old-fashioned  grate, 
and,  sitting  among  old-fashioned  chairs,  was  the 
housekeeper.  Next  to  the  canary-bird  the  house- 
keeper was  the  youngest  article  in  her  room.  She  is 
a  tall,  fine-looking  woman  who  laughs  delightfully 
at  all  of  my  jokes,  but  who  can  be  very  firm  when  in 
the  capacity  of  housckeei)cr.  Next  to  her  room  was  a 
warm  kitchen,  where  a  maid  prepares  meals  if  the 
English  managers  of  the  theater  want  them.  All  of 
this  the  housekeeper  oversees,  as  well  as  looking  after 
the  whole  tlu^ater,  ordering  the  si)ijits  for  the  bar, 
and,  when  a  production  is  large,  taking  care  of  the 
costumes. 

I  did  not  come  under  any  of  these  activities.  I 
was  just  a  frozen  actress,  with  a  heavy  role  to  play 
the  following  jiight  and  a  voice  that  was  going  down 
rapidly  in  its  effort  to  spend  more  and  more  tune  with 
the  toasty  "inner  man."  Yet  the  housekeeper  took 
pity  on  me,  and  when  the  dress  rehearsal  was  over 
at  midnight  I  found  myself  making  my  way  along 
dim  streets,  to  a  part  of  the  city  strange  to  me, 
climbing  three  flights  of  stairs  according  to  direc- 
tions, and  letting  myself  in  with  a  latch-key  to  the 
narrow  hall  of  her  flat.  Through  the  transom  of  a 
closed  door  I  saw  a  flicker  of  light  upon  th(^  ceiling  — 
light  reflected  from  my  grate  and  this  pillar  of  lire 
led  me  to  my  present  blessed  shelter, 

S3 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

The  trunks  followed  by  American  Express,  for  there 
is  in  the  city  of  London,  at  present,  no  swift  method 
of  transportation  of  baggage.  There  are  two  van 
companies  which,  if  given  sufficient  time,  will  trans- 
fer your  luggage  or  take  it  to  a  railway  station,  but 
the  warning  must  be  long  and  thoughtful.  Trunks 
going  to  a  station  must  be  ready  a  day  in  advance, 
and  I  really  don't  know  what  the  Londoner  is  going 
to  do  now  that  the  four-wheeler  is  conspicuous  only 
for  its  rarity,  and  the  porter  who  once  hung  about 
the  streets,  eager  for  the  job  of  ''mounting  or  de- 
scending" the  baggage,  is  entirely  absent.  Certainly 
the  Englishman  will  be  lonely  after  having  journeyed 
to  and  from  the  great  stations  for  so  many  years  with 
his  boxes  on  top  of  his  head,  separated  only  by  the 
roof  of  his  square  little  cab. 

After  I  had  packed  my  effects  at  the  terrible  hotel, 
I  descended  to  the  desk  to  pay  my  bill  on  the  day  of 
the  dress  rehearsal  (it  seems  years  ago,  but  it  was  only 
the  day  before  yesterday)  and  made  a  little  speech 
to  the  Crab.  I  was  afraid  to  make  it,  but  I  felt  that 
I  must.  I  knew  if  she  saw  I  was  afraid  of  her  it  would 
have  no  weight,  so  I  put  some  English  intonation 
into  my  voice  and  was  as  condescending  as  possible. 

"I  have  found  out  that  other  employees  outside 
of  this  hotel  can  be  courteous  to  Americans,  but  my 
country-people  don't  know  this  when  they  first  get 
off  the  boat  and  are  brought  here  by  their  various  or- 
ganizations. They  think  all  England  is  going  to  act 
as  you  do  toward  them,  and  they  become  hostile. 
I  am  going  now — " 

The  Crab  was  looking  at  me  blankly,  but  at  the 
words  ''going  now"  she  opened  the  ledger  opposite 
my  room  number.    "Going  now"  was  a  language  she 

84 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

could  understand.  However,  I  went  on,  "Yes,  I'm 
going,  but  I  just  want  to  say  that  a  hotel  clerk  like 
you  does  more  to  create  enmity  between  two  coun- 
tries than  all  the  bombs  ever  thrown  at  an  archduke." 

She  slapped  the  book  and  struck  a  bell.  The 
anxious  ones  around  the  desk  were  very  quiet,  then 
a  shrunken  little  man  leaned  over  and  said  to  her, 
shamefacedly,  "If  the  lady  is  leaving,  perhaps  I  can 
have  her  room." 

I  tiu-ned  away,  but  I  heard  the  Crab.  She  was 
making  hideous  sounds  like  scratching  laughter  such 
as  crabs  would  make,  and  they  were  all  so  eager  for 
a  resting-place  that  no  one  stuck  up  for  me.  She  had 
the  upper  hand.  She  will  have  it  for  a  long  time,  and 
then  things  will  be  all  right. 

Just  the  same,  I  am  glad  I  got  it  off  my  chest.  Cour- 
age is  a  quality  that  gathers  force  with  its  expenditure. 
Whenever  I  thought  during  the  next  two  days  of  the 
horrors  of  the  first  night  I  would  make  a  little  speech 
to  myself:  ''Now  you  were  brave  with  the  Crab, 
you  can  be  brave  over  your  part.  You  can  play  that 
part;  you  know  your  lines." 

It  was  some  consolation  to  me  that  I  was  not  the 
only  one  in  need  of  ''treatment."  On  the  night  of 
the  dress  rehearsal  I  heard  our  nice  young  juvenile 
bleating  piteously  for  the  address  of  a  Christian 
Scientist,  and  I  knew  what  he  was  after.  I  went  to 
him  when  there  was  no  one  else  around.  "If  you 
will  just  say  'Courage'  a  number  of  times  as  you 
wait  for  your  entrance  cue,  it  will  really  help  you," 
1  advised. 

He  was  a  scoffer  in  life — as  the  young  are — but  he 
listened  to  me  eagerly.    "You  think  it  won't  be  rot?" 

"I  am  sure  of  it.    Courage  is  a  stimulating  word — 

85 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

anyway,  it  won't  hurt.  That's  the  best  of  mental  sug- 
gestion.   Unhke  medicine,  it  can't  do  you  any  harm." 

He  was  very  gruff  about  it,  but:  ''Don't  tell  any 
one;  I'll  try  it.  I'll  be  all  right  on  the  night — it's 
the  dress  rehearsals  that  upset  me."  He  stalked  away 
as  though  we  might  have  been  discussing  bull-terriers. 

I  knew  then  that  he  was  brimful  of  vitality  and 
that  I  possessed  little.  I  can  rehearse  forever,  and 
before  the  most  snarling  managers  who  ever  puffed  a 
cigar  out  in  the  empty  auditorium.  These  men  do 
not  make  me  nervous.  I  enjoy  the  working  out  of  a 
character,  the  creating  of  it,  but  a  big  audience  tears 
me  to  pieces.  The  effort  to  give  to  so  many  of  them 
devours  my  slender  strength.  This  isn't  fancied. 
Ask  a  teacher  if  she  is  not  more  exhausted  at  the 
end  of  a  lesson  to  a  big  class  than  to  a  small  one. 
To  be  sure,  we  enjoy  the  stimulation  from  a  large 
house,  for  it  is  more  apt  to  be  responsive,  but  we  pay 
for  it  as  the  creature  eats  us  up.  If  any  of  you  should 
chance  to  see  me  on  the  night  that  the  audience  is 
slender,  don't  feel  sorry.  At  least  I  am  playing  easily 
and  without  strain — which  means  naturally  and  my 
best. 

So,  on  the  night  preceding  the  opening,  while  the 
boy  stood  outside  his  entrance,  thinking  ''Courage," 
in  hope  of  pleasing  the  handful  which  constituted  the 
powers  out  in  front,  I  was  flitting  through  fairly 
serenely,  with  Mrs.  Wren  to  hearten  me  as  the  steam 
went  down  and  the  large  dressing-room  with  the 
chaise-longue  grew  more  icy.  Beechey  was  with  me 
for  a  while.  That  is  one  of  the  joys  of  English  thea- 
ters: the  friends  of  the  artist  are  received  by  the 
door-man  as  though  they  were  not  burglars  with  a 
kit  of  tools  in  their  gold-mesh  purses.     Nor  is  the 

86 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

player  himself  regarded  as  an  inmate  of  a  peniten- 
tiary, with  no  privilege  beyond  that  of  slinking  through 
the  stage-door  in  the  hope  of  attracting  as  little  at- 
tention as  possible.  It  was  made  plaui  to  us  before 
the  last  rehearsal  that  no  human  being  could  step 
upon  the  stage  proper  save  those  concerned  in  the 
play,  and  this  is  intensely  right,  but  a  \'isitor  can  be 
accommodated  in  the  greenroom,  and  sit  in  the  beau- 
tiful old  Chippendale  chairs,  just  as  though  Mr. 
Chippendale  had  cunningly  contrived  them  for  the 
comfort  of  the  friends  of  actors  with  the  first  inter- 
lacing of  his  ribbons. 

Beechey,  who,  as  I  say,  seems  to  have  no  interest 
in  the  play  beyond  hoping  I  will  remain  for  a  long 
time — and  liking  the  leading  man's  performance,  if 
not  mine — had  come  to  report  on  the  possibilities  of 
securing  the  maisonnette  to  which  I  have  already  (in 
this  very  de  Morgan,  wrong-end-first  style  of  telling 
a  tale)  referred.  While  the  housekeeper's  room  means 
warmth  and  everlasting  gratitude,  there  is  no  accom- 
modation even  for  the  hat-box  of  shoes.  The  type- 
writer is  under  the  bed,  as  silent  as  a  thief  in  the 
night,  and  I  have  hanging-room  only  for  my  seven 
outside  coats,  which  I  usually  have  on  all  the  time, 
anyway. 

It  seems,  according  to  Beechey  and  Mrs.  Wren, 

that  you  have  to  stand  in  front  of  a  maisonnette  a  week 

or  two  before  the  departing  tenant  leaves  it,  in  order 

to  secure  it  as  your  own.     I  have  always  wondered 

how   the   cuckoo  managed  to  lay  its  egg  in  some 

other  bird's   nest,   and   I  suppose  it  follows  much 

the   same   plan.    The  cuckoo  is  supposed  to  be  a 

lazy  bird,   but  Beechey    assures    me    that    nothing 

is     more     arduous     than    standing     in    front     of 
7  87 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

maisonnettes — or  nests — and  waiting  for  the  tenant 
to  go  out. 

I  had  no  clue  to  maisonnettes  beyond  asking  if  the 
present  possessors,  when  they  flew  off  the  nest,  flew 
off  sadly  or  happily.  From  observation  I  have  no- 
ticed if  you  do  not  like  your  domicile  you  always 
stand  on  the  step,  after  opening  the  door,  take  a  long 
breath,  as  though  trying  to  wash  out  the  atmosphere 
of  your  home  and  go  springily  down  the  street,  far, 
far  away  from  it.  My  friend  replied  that  she  had 
found  they  left  the  house  sadly,  but  honestly  added 
that  they  were  an  officer  and  his  family  "moving  on" 
like  little  Joe,  and  may  have  been  sad  because  they 
must  fly  to  nests  they  wot  not  of.  "This  maisonnette,''^ 
said  Beechey,  giving  me  the  address,  "has  the  charm 
of  being  in  Chelsea." 

"Is  that  a  charm?"  I  asked. 

"Oh  yes,  madam,"  said  my  darling  Mrs.  Wren. 
My  new  dresser  was  down  on  her  knees,  picking  at 
the  folds  of  my  new  gown.  She  never  stops  picking 
at  me,  in  the  dressing-room  or  in  the  wings,  but  I 
don't  mind.  She  takes  an  interest  in  dresses  and  ad- 
dresses— in  anything  that  is  mine.  "Chelsea  is  a 
very  good  address." 

"Is  it  important  that  I  have  a  good  address?"  I 
asked  Mrs.  Wren. 

"Oh,  madam,  yes,"  she  repeated,  forcibly.  "OflScers 
must  have  them,  since  they  are  officers,  and  actresses 
should  have  them,  since  they  are  actresses.  You  can 
do  'most  anything  you  want  if  you  have  a  good 
address,  madam." 

This  temptation  to  lead  an  irregular  life  under  the 
gmse  of  a  good  address  clinched  the  matter,  and 
Beechey  departed  to  take  up  her  station  outside  the 

88 


"this  maisonette  has  Tin;  cnAKM  OF  BEiNd  IN  chelsea' 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

maisonnette,  having  promised  to  attract  no  attention 
by  "cuckooing."  And  so  the  rehearsal  went  on  until, 
like  everything  good  or  bad,  it  came  to  an  end,  and 
I  prowled  "home"  to  said  glowing  fire  welcoming  me 
through  the  transom  on  said  ceiling.  Poor  strollers! 
Their  last  roosting-place  is  alwaj^s  "home." 

******* 

I  had  a  weak  belief  when  I  went  to  bed  the  night 
before  last — the  night  of  the  dress  rehearsal — that 
this  interest  in  the  maisonnette  would  paint  in  a  slightly 
roseate  hue  the  usual  black  hours  preceding  an 
opening.  But  I  awoke  with  a  terrible  weight  on  my 
stomach,  so  clearly  defined  that  I  thought  at  first  it 
was  my  breakfast  tray.  I  found  myself  breathing  ir- 
regularly, as  though  I  had  run  up  many  flights  of  steps, 
and  then — ah,  old  cycle  of  old  fears! — I  began  repeat- 
ing my  cues,  my  lines,  and  every  one  else's  lines. 

I  was  annoyed  with  myself.  I  had  said  only  the 
day  before,  if  I  could  just  be  warm  I  would  be  in- 
vulnerable to  any  further  woe,  now  the  laughing 
housekeeper  was  laying  my  fire,  and  it  was  as  nothing. 
I  watched  her  as  she  made  the  fire,  and  asked  ques- 
tions, with  a  view  to  forgetting.  One  can  do  this  for 
a  fraction  of  a  second,  then  the  horror  comes  creeping 
back,  and  except  that  it  might  lead  to  greater  fears 
emanating  from  greater  weakenings,  I  was  inclined 
to  lie  back  and  bellow,  "I  am  afraid!  I  am  afraid!" 
in  utter  abandonment. 

The  housekeeper  was  holding  a  newspaper  out  in 
front  of  the  grate  to  encourage  the  reluctant  flame. 
My  mind  made  a  short  excursion  to  Livei-pool,  .to 
the  porter  with  the  splintered  wood  in  his  pocket, 
to  the  rich  lady  with  the  plaster  laths  in  her  bag, 
for  it  was  impossible  to  buy  kindling  in  London  at 

89 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

that  moment.  However,  she  was  using  some  little 
compressed  blocks  of  charcoal,  which  were  popularly 
supposed  to  be  fire-lighters.  After  she  had  held  the 
newspaper  up  for  a  long  time,  I  asked  her  where  was 
her  tin  blower — going  back  to  Indiana  hearthstones — 
and  she  had  never  heard  of  a  tin  blower.  She  had 
always  used  a  newspaper. 

"Does  every  one  else  use  a  newspaper?" 

Oh  yes.     The  Morning  Telegraph   was   the  best. 

She  advised  me  to  take  in  the  Morning  Telegraph  if  I 

went  into  housekeeping,  so  as  to  have  a  good  blower. 

"Then  the  women  all  over  London  are  now  holding 

newspapers  before  fires?" 

She  admitted  that  they  were. 
"How  long  do  they  hold  up  the  papers?" 
When  I  found  that  they  held  them  up  at  least  six 
minutes,  and  we  both  agreed  that  there  must  be 
100,000  open  fires  warming  8,000,000  people,  I  dis- 
covered a  pencil,  and  on  the  cover  of  my  typed  part 
(stuck  under  my  pillow  so  that  the  lines  would  soak 
in)  I  did  some  rapid  figuring.  And  by  the  time  the 
housekeeper  returned  with  my  breakfast  tray  I  was 
able  to  tell  her  that  10,000  hours,  or  58-f  weeks,  were 
wasted  every  day  in  London  holding  up  Morning 
Telegraphs  before  bashful  flames — and  longer,  if  the 
household  took  in  a  smaller  newspaper.  The  house- 
keeper laughed  and  said,  "Fancy!"  And  neither  of 
us  could  devise  a  way  of  turning  this  waste  time  into 
some  use,  unless  you  could  read  the  Telegraph  while 
holding  it  up  before  you.  But  one  conclusion  was 
certain,  when  this  little  talk  was  over :  the  housekeeper 
intended  to  go  on  holding  up  newspapers,  as  she  had 
always  done,  and  I  intended  to  find  some  way  of 

obviating  it,  if  the  maiso7inette  should  become  mine, 

90 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

I  thought  as  much  as  I  could  of  the  maisonnette, 
and  hoped  it  would  have  a  garden  and  be  called 
"Mon  Bijou.''  After  the  dress  rehearsal  there  didn't 
seem  to  be  a  possibility  of  our  play  lasting  more  than 
a  minute — an  audience  that  could  find  anything  to 
laugh  at  or  cry  over  was  beyond  our  wildest  hopes. 
It  was  so  bad  that  the  American  manager  gave  us 
up  entirely,  and  told  us  to  ''go  on  home,  sweethearts, 
curtain  at  eight  to-morrow."  If  he  had  cried:  "Great 
snakes!  You  gotta  put  some  humor  in  this  rehearsal 
if  you  freeze  your  feet  off  doin'  it  "  we  might  have 
felt  encoiu'aged. 

''It's  the  boat  for  us,"  said  the  juvenile,  as  we 
climbed  the  steps  to  our  dressing-rooms.  The  juvenile 
was  glowering  at  me,  as  he  had  not  been  very  success- 
ful with  "Courage." 

However,  since  I  had  come  over  to  study  social 
conditions,  I  would  have  had  to  stay,  even  though  the 
play  had  not  been  a  success  and  had  folded  its  scenery 
like  the  Arab,  and  silently  stolen  off  to  the  store- 
house. With  this  great  mission  ahead  my  conscience 
troubled  me  a  little  over  writing  of  conditions  in  a 
maisonnette,  but  I  continued  to  entertain  the  possibility 
of  securing  such  an  abode,  as  the  prospect  was  allur- 
ing. I  don't  know  why  wicked  imaginings  are  more 
apt  to  keep  us  distracted  than  soberer  dreams  which 
might  be  realized.  We  waste  as  many  hours  as  the 
fire-builders  of  London  conjuring  up  situations  that 
could  never  possibly  be  part  of  our  existence.  We  are 
not  content  with  figuring  on  a  probability.  We  change 
the  color  of  our  hair  and  speak  in  Russian  or  any  of 
the  Balkan  tongues. 

Perhaps  the  "we  "  offends  you.  This  is  a  book  con- 
fessing my  shortcomings,  so  if  the  "we"  creeps  in, 

91 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

pray  remember  I  am  editorially  speaking,  as  a  scrap 
of  a  girl,  I  spent  so  much  time  day-dreaming  that  I 
looked  forward,  with  a  good  deal  of  relief,  to  myself 
as  a  grown-up,  when  I  would  surely  apply  my  mind 
more  industriously  to  the  real  problems  of  life.  And 
when  I  grew  up  I  continued  to  look  forward  to  grow- 
ing older,  that  I  might  "put  away  childish  things." 
And  now  that  I  am — oh,  undoubtedly — older  I  know 
perfectly  well  that  I  am  never  going  to  stop  day- 
dreams, and  that  they  will  always  continue  foolish. 
It  is  a  sad  admission,  but  I  suppose  I  must  go  on,  in 
my  mind,  saving  the  United  States  President  from 
the  bullet  of  an  assassin  every  time  we  read  of  a  crank 
prowling  round  the  White  House.  I  will  be  stepping 
modestly  forward  to  receive  the  IjCgion  of  Honor  for 
the  discovery  of  a  cholera  cure,  and  I  will  deprecatingly 
allow  King  Victor  Emanuel  to  fasten  a  diamond  upon 
me  for  the  rescue  of  ten  thousand  Italians  in  a 
Sicilian  sulphur-mine.  I  will  do  all  those  crazy  young 
things,  just  as  I  have  within  the  last  few  days — in 
spite  of  my  gloom  over  my  approaching  failure — 
been  repeatedly  backing  out  of  the  royal  box  in  our 
London  theater  after  King  George  has  assured  me 
that  I  was  "the  best  thing  in  the  show." 

I  will  not  ask  the  reader  if  she,  too,  builds  these 
foolish  castles  inhabited  always  by  the  same  heroine. 
I  can't  believe  it  possible  that  the  world  could  go 
on  combing  its  hair,  having  its  teeth  fixed,  making 
money  for  the  children's  shoes,  if  there  were  a  lot 
of  Simple  Simons  like  myself.  But  there  is  just  one 
way  of  finding  out  if  you  are  a  Simple  Simon,  too; 
if  you  really  are  simple,  you  will  own  up  to  it,  as 
I  have. 

Although  it  was  raining,  although  I  had  a  fire,  I 

92 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

could  not  stay  in  my  room.  I  began  to  roam  the  streets 
nervously,  as  I  have  done  so  many  times  before.  I 
went  into  a  big  shop,  run  on  American  lines,  to  have 
my  hair  shampooed;  not  that  I  needed  a  shampoo, 
but  that  the  shop  was  American.  And  yet  not  very 
American.  A  house  of  any  kind  takes  its  character 
from  the  country  it  is  in.  The  difference  may  be  in 
the  cashier's  desk,  or  the  iron  rails  of  the  staircase, 
or  the  "Up"  and  ''Down"  indicators  of  the  elevator, 
or  it  may  be  nothing  as  definite,  but  a  shop  soon  be- 
longs to  the  nation  to  which  it  caters. 

Tips  are  not  given  the  attendants  in  the  hair- 
dressing  department,  and  this  is  not  American  at  all. 
Moreover,  the  j'^oung  woman  who  looked  after  me 
refused  the  shilling  I  offered  her — and  obeying  the 
regulations  is  not  American,  either.  She  was  a  nice 
young  girl,  and,  since  she  had  promised  to  take  charge 
of  my  hair  while  I  am  in  London,  I  told  her  I  would 
bring  her  tickets  for  the  theater  where  I  was  playing. 
I  don't  know  why  I  told  her  I  was  playing,  as  I  knew 
I  wouldn't  be  after  the  first  or  second  night.  But  I 
went  on  recklessly  lying — probably  to  make  myself 
interesting,  so  that  she  would  enjoy  doing  my  hair 
even  though  there  was  no  tip  ahead  to  encourage  her. 
I  also  said  I  lived  in  Chelsea,  yes,  in  a  maisonnette; 
probably  I  wanted  to  see  if  she  would  treat  me  with 
less  respect  upon  learning  of  '^Mon  BijouJ'  But  she 
did  not  seem  impressed  one  way  or  the  other,  merely 
asking  if  it  was  not  hard  going  to  and  fro  in  19  bus, 
if  I  had  to  "carry  my  instrument,"  and  I  was  so  be- 
wildered at  this  that  I  assured  her  my  instrument 
was  not  heavy  at  all.  Indeed,  I  did  not  realize  until 
I  reached  the  un-American  clicking  doors  that  she 
must  have  thought,  if  I  "played"  in  a  theater,  that  I 

93 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

was  in  the  band!    I  should  have  said  ''acted."    Still, 
it  was  a  nice  shop,  but  not  American. 

Her  touching  upon  bus  19  reminded  me  that  I 
might  catch  it  and  go  out  to  see  for  myself  what  a 
maisonnette  was,  as  the  address  was  in  my  purse.  I 
don't  know  why  we  say  ''catching"  a  tram,  or  "catch- 
ing" a  car,  or  even  "catching"  a  bus,  in  the  United 
States,  for  all  three  of  these  vehicles  stop  for  us. 
But  over  here,  the  only  way  to  get  a  bus,  except  at 
far,  undesignated  intervals,  where  it  comes  to  a  full 
stop,  is  to  leap  upon  it  as  it  is  making  evident  efforts 
to  run  over  you. 

I  can't  imagine  why  Britons  should  have  felt  the 
loss  of  fox-hunting  during  the  war,  when  this  bus- 
catching  game  offers  such  rare  sport.  It  is  even  more 
sporting.  Unlike  the  fox,  which  does  not  attack  you, 
but  is  always  the  pursued,  a  bus,  upon  discovering 
that  you  have  picked  it  out  for  your  quarry,  charges 
directly  at  you,  in  no  way  slackening  its  speed,  with 
all  the  tremendous  courage  of  beasts  of  the  jungle. 
If  it  does  not  succeed  in  jumping  on  you,  it  hoots 
derisively  as  you  step  back,  and  squirts  liquid  all 
over  you,  something  after  the  manner  of  an  animal 
highly  prized  for  its  fur- — but  not  a  fox.  To  be  sure, 
a  man  cannot  fall  off  his  horse  if  he  misses  the  step, 
and  be  trampled  upon  by  horses  coming  up  behind 
him,  but  he  can  fall  in  the  mud  an^  be  run  over  by 
other  motor-buses  anxious  to  get  in  at  the  death. 
And  he  can  talk  just  as  interestingly  of  the  day's 
run  when  his  friends  come  to  see  him  in  the  hospital 
as  though  he  had  a  little  plumy  tail  to  show  for  his 
morning  exercise. 

These  fond  fancies  come  to  me  now,  but  they  didn't 

yesterday,  as  I  rode,  mud-splashed,  after  my  third 

94 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

engagement  with  a  19  bus.  Yet  the  struggle  went  on 
to  keep  distracted.  At  one  period  on  the  bus  it 
seemed  the  most  ignoble  struggle  in  the  world.  This 
was  when  the  vehicle  halted,  not  at  the  usual  stopping- 
place,  and  two  nuns,  one  girl  in  khaki,  and  one  old 
man  arose  from  their  seats  near  the  door  as  four 
one-legged,  very  young  men  hopped  on.  All  were 
friends,  all  were  laughing.  Only  one  was  in  hospital- 
blue,  two  were  in  officers'  uniforms,  and  the  fourth 
in  civilian  dress.  He  had,  in  the  words  of  Mrs.  Wren, 
been  ''demobbed." 

There  was  a  great  collection  of  crutches  after  they 
were  settled,  and  a  stacking  of  them  up  in  the  little 
space  under  the  iron  staircase  which  leads  aloft. 
Once  the  conductor  accommodated  himself  to  this 
space,  but  for  the  rest  of  our  lives — my  life,  any- 
way— this  little  closet  will  be  devoted  to  these  sad 
trophies  of  the  war. 

It  was  not  the  boy  in  hospital-blue  that  ''got  me," 
nor  the  men  who  would  soon  be  "demobbed."  It  was 
the  one-legged  civilian,  the  civilian  like  myself,  who 
set  before  me  a  consciousness  of  a  new  task  that  we 
can  never  finish.  We  must  adapt  ourselves  to  the 
vista  of  any  street  we  may  walk  along,  with  at  least 
one  armless,  or  legless,  or  scarred  boy  within  the  area 
of  our  vision.  We  must  remake  our  lives  to  this  con- 
dition; must  expend  pity,  yet  never  exhaust  it;  must 
become  practical  even  while  we  remain  pitiful;  must 
accept  these  mutiles  as  though  they  were  body-whole, 
since  they  are  mind- whole,  yet  exquisitely  discriminate 
that  the  burden  we  lay  upon  them  is  not  too  great 
for  their  physical  limitations. 

The  rebellion  that  is  not  new  to  me,  that  devoured 
me  throughout  France  whenever  I  v^isited  a  hospital, 

95 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

began  creeping  into  my  veins  as  malaria  returns  to 
the  sufferer  of  old.  Yet  the  words  of  a  French  surgeon 
recall  themselves  for  my  comfort.  He  had  been 
showing  me  what  they  could  do  for  a  man  without  a 
face,  and  I  had  contemplated  the  grotesque  restora- 
tion after  two  years  of  hospital  agony. 

"I  think  he  would  have  been  better  dead,"  was  all 
I  could  say  of  his  handiwork. 

''Yes,  madam,  you  think  so.    But  the  boy  did  not." 

And  I  suppose  so  long  as  the  vital  forces  of  a  man 
continue  that  he  really  does  want  to  live.  Certainly, 
these  four  young  fellows  were  getting  a  great  deal 
out  of  a  rainy  afternoon.  The  civilian,  more  agile 
than  the  rest,  made  a  bet  that  he  could  hop  on  top 
without  his  crutches,  and  did  so;  the  three  remained 
below  to  argue  v/ith  the  conductress — she  was  wearing 
her  delightful  tarpaulin  bonnet — that  they  should 
only  pay  half-fare,  since  a  portion  of  each  of  them  was 
paying  for  what  space  they  were  occupying  in  France. 
The  bus  conductress  looked  delighted,  but  flustered: 
"Full  fare,  gentlemen;  you've  still  something  to  sit 
down  with,"  she  retorted.  For  which  she  received 
sixpence  from  the  major  of  the  party  for  ''being  a 
good  girl." 

Up  in  my  far  corner  I  pressed  my  face  against  the 
glass  to  look  out  upon  the  wetness  of  Cadogan  Place, 
which  continues  a  place  of  intrigue,  with  a  gay  air 
about  it,  even  in  bad  weather.  How  surprised  those 
officers  would  have  been  had  they  known  my  mental 
processes.  "Can't  you  get  anything  out  of  those  poor 
chaps?"  I  was  saying  to  myself.  "If  they  could  go 
through  their  baptism  of  real  fire,  can't  you  go  on  to 
a  full  stage  and  speak  a  few  fool  lines  without  fear? 
Is  it  important  to  the  world,  to  this  terrible  world 

96 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

dealing  with  vast  complications,  whether  you  give 
a  rotten  performance  or  not?  Good  Heavens!  it's 
all  pretend,  and  it's  only  three  hours.  Can't  you  play 
you're  a  soldier  for  just  one  night?  Here's  a  thought: 
Bob  died  fighting;  he  was  an  actor;  how  pleased  he 
would  be  if  he  knew  that  some  of  his  spirit  was  helping 
a  comrade  of  a  theater  through  an  hour  of  trial. 
Show  some  of  Bob's  spirit,  and  go  on  fighting.  You've 
got  your  legs  and  your  arms  and  your  eyes.  You've 
even  got  a  job — you're  the  luckiest  of  women." 

It  worked.  It  worked  for  a  while,  but,  would  you 
beheve  it,  by  five  o'clock  I  was  inclined  to  think  that 
the  man  with  his  leg  off,  and  no  first  night  ahead  of 
him,  had  the  best  of  it.  I  suppose  we  suffer  over 
efforts  that  are  really  not  important  to  the  cosmic 
scheme  because,  after  all,  they  are  our  way  of  ex- 
pression in  life.  If  we  didn't  give  a  hang  whether  or 
not  we  succeeded,  all  of  the  little  arteries  that  vein  the 
peopled  universe  would  atrophy;  we  would  move  on 
sluggishly,  aimlessly,  until  we  perished  of  inaction.  No 
matter  what  our  task  is,  it  is  ours,  and  we  must  care 
about  it.  I  would  not  go  on  at  such  a  boring  rate, 
talking  to  whatever  slender  public  this  book  may 
reach  anent  the  trials  of  a  business  of  which  they 
will  never  be  a  part,  if  I  did  not  feel  that  all  of  us, 
after  one  fashion  or  another,  experience  this  terror 
which  is  attendant  upon  initiative. 

I  am  sure,  too,  that  the  hour  comes  to  each  of  us 
when,  enraged  by  this  fear  that  seems  about  to  engulf 
us,  we  cry,  sternly:  ''I  will  not  suffer  this  nonsense 
further.  I  will  not  be  devoured  by  this  monster  of 
my  own  making,"  and  straightway  find  that  the  tur- 
bulence has  given  place  to  calm.    One  might  argue 

that  if  we  did  this  with  the  first  qualm,  we  could  save 

97 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

ourselves  a  good  deal  of  harassment,  but  it  is  only 
when  I  have  reached  the  top  note  of  suffering  that  this 
inner  strength  gathers  its  fierce  forces  for  the  ''Great 
Push." 

I  made  this  speech  to  myself  at  5.15,  after  I  had  left 
the  Httle  park  upon  which  my  maisonnette  gave.     I 
had  been  walking  about  the  square  for  some  time, 
viewing  the  premises  from  different  angles.     On  the 
whole,  the  house  was  not  disappointing,    although, 
like  every  other  fond  imagining,  it  was  not  what  I 
had  expected.     It  had  no  gate  and  no  wall  and  no 
garden — at  least,  not  in  front.    It  was  one  of  a  hun- 
dred others  in  the  square,  so  disconcertingly  alike 
that  if  I  were  a  man  going  out  to  a  reunion  of  my 
alumni  I  should  tie  a  large  bow  to  my  particular  area 
railings  (something  with  loops  to  catch  on  to),  that 
I  might  locate  my  happy  home  upon  my  return 
without  greatly  inconveniencing  the  neighbors.  There 
were  no  preliminaries  to  the  front  door  beyond  a  white 
calcimined  low  stoop,  yet  I  had  always  wanted  one 
of  these  whitened  bits  of  flagging  for  my  own,  and  had 
once  contemplated  living  in  Philadelphia  or  Baltimore 
that  I  might  be  such  a  householder. 

I  made  a  swift  tour  about  the  square  immediately 
upon  my  arrival  to  see  if  there  were  any  tablets  in 
the  walls.  I  understand  that,  next  to  tombstones, 
there  are  more  tablets  in  Chelsea  than  any  other  part 
of  London.  Yet  I  was  disappointed  in  this,  and  I 
presume  the  amazing  respectability  of  the  neighbor- 
hood had  discouraged  the  artistic.  To  be  sure,  now 
and  then  a  householder  had  painted  his  door  an  art 
shade.  My  door  was  mauve,  which  delighted  me 
with  its  portent,  and  there  were  curtains  to  match 
at  the  ground-floor  windows  which  looked  directly 

98 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

upon  the  street.  By  tilting  my  umbrella  up  suddenly 
as  I  went  by  (I  went  by  a  number  of  times,  screened 
by  my  brolly),  I  could  see  a  fire  blazing  recklessly 
on  the  hearth  in  this  room,  and  once,  when  a  maid 
left  the  front  door  open  to  dispute  the  excellence  of 
potatoes  with  the  grocer's  boy,  I  could  look  right 
through  the  shallow  house,  beyond  another  open  door 
in  the  rear,  and  saw  a  garden  with  a  tree  in  it. 

"While  I  made  a  mental  reservation  that  if  the 
house  became  mine  I  would  not  leave  the  doors  open, 
no  matter  on  what  tree  I  looked,  it  was  the  bare 
branches  of  these  majestic  friends  which  overcame  any 
slight  disappointment  in  "Mon  Bijou."  There  was  not 
only  the  one  in  the  back  yard — "back  yard"  is  never 
used  in  this  country;  it  is  very  low — but  magnificent 
creatures  in  the  park  were  waving  hospitable  arms  at 
me,  taking  away  the  bleakness  by  a  decoration  of 
myriads  of  little  hanging  balls.  Although  spring  was 
a  long  way  off  on  this  February  day,  it  is  never  diffi- 
cult to  imagine  its  proximity  if  we  have  so  much  as  a 
trunk  on  which  to  festoon  our  fancies.  I  always  like 
to  be  where  I  can  watch  at  least  one  tree  go  through 
its  various  processes  of  completing  its  summer  ward- 
robe. It's  the  only  creature  I  know  which  emerges 
well  garbed  from  the  hands  of  a  home  dressmaker. 
Even  if  one  is  languid  over  clothes,  at  the  first  little 
reddish  bud  one  begins  to  collect  samples  and  look 
in  shop-windows. 

The  trees  had  it,  and  I  could  scarcely  keep  from 
cuckooing  myself  when  a  tall  officer  and  a  short 
wife  passed  through  the  purple  door  and  left  their 
home  "to  darkness  and  to  me."  I  was  annoyed  that 
Beechey  was  not  on  guard,  although  the  night  before 
she  had  muttered  something,  very  practical  for  her, 

99 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

about  going  to  see  the  agent.  I  particularly  wanted 
her,  as  the  size  of  the  house  made  me  uneasy.  It 
was  going  to  be  too  big  for  me.  I  would  have  to  pay 
rent  for  four  floors,  yet,  according  to  my  argument 
as  opposed  to  the  methods  of  the  lady  in  the  suburban 
villa,  I  would  not  be  living  wisely  if  I  used  more  than 
two  rooms.  And  why  was  an  obviously  full-grown 
house  called  a  maisonnette,  anyway? 

Surely  this  was  not  a  square  of  maisonnettes.  The 
fine  old  dame  sternly  taking  her  airing  in  a  bath- 
chair,  rain  or  no  rain,  who  issued  from  the  door  next 
to  my  purple  one  (hers  was  drab),  could  not  possibly 
live  in  any  abode  with  so  gay  a  sound.  Nor  could 
the  small  boy  up  the  street,  who  went  in  and  out  of 
his  faded  green  door  a  dozen  times  in  one  minute, 
banging  it,  endure  in  a  place  where  French  must  be 
spoken  freely.  I  made  one  turn  around  the  square 
closely  behind  the  boy,  hoping  for  light  from  him. 
He  was  boasting  to  a  companion  of  his  huge  feed  of 
the  night  before:  ''An'  then  I  'ad  my  tea,  an'  then  I 
'ad  another  orange."  His  little  companion  was  ragged 
and  wistful. 

I  produced  two  coppers  from  my  purse,  then  dug 
for  more,  as  one  loses  courage  these  days  in  London 
when  it  comes  time  to  bestow  largess,  and  I  caught 
up  with  them  as  we  completed  the  promenade,  again 
approaching  the  pm-ple  door.  "Boys,"  I  asked, 
chinking  the  coppers,  "do  you  know  of  any  maison- 
nettes around  here?" 

The  boys  eyed  me,  but  respectfully,  and  the  shabby 
one,  hearing  the  coppers,  ejected  a  reply— any  reply 
for  the  coppers  would  do.    "Lots  of  'em  'ave  'em." 

"Lots  of  what  have  them?"  I  asked. 

*' Persons." 

100 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

Oh!  Then  a  maisonnette  was  an  appurtenance — a 
summer-house,  perhaps,  in  the  garden.  Just  hke 
Beechey  to  want  me  to  live  in  an  open-work  estab- 
lishment! 

The  boy  continued  well  informed.  ''There  is  one  of 
'em  in  there,"  jerking  his  thumb  toward  my  door. 

"In  the  garden?"  I  pursued. 

He  looked  mildly  surprised.   "In  the  'ouse." 

I  was  relieved.  It  was  something  in  the  house,  then. 
No  doubt  put  in  extra,  like  a  bath-tub. 

"Of  what  does  it  consist?"    Very  craftily  from  me. 

This  had  to  be  reframed  three  times.  The  shabby 
boy  did  not  know,  but  my  neighbor  proved  himself 
au  fait  with  the  word:  "My  dadda  brings  coal  there. 
Hit's  the  ground  floor  and  the  basement,  with  the 
use  of  the  barth." 

"My  mother  charred  there  oust,"  broke  in  the 
visitor  to  the  square.  And  then,  in  a  voice  sepulchral 
with  respect,  "It  'as  a  geezer." 

''kwhat?'' 

"A  geezer,  in  the  bath." 

I  gave  them  the  coppers.  There  was  nothing  more 
to  be  said.  Naturally,  the  ground  floor  and  the  base- 
ment with  the  geezer  in  the  bath  would  comprise  a 
maisonnette.  But  what  good  would  the  bath  be  to 
me  if  the  geezer  stayed  in  it  all  the  time?  I  knew  my 
cockney;  "an  old  geezer"  was  a  frivolous  elderly  man. 
Still,  I  hesitated.  Times  had  changed  and,  possibly,  the 
language.  It  might  be  a  turtle,  and  if  so  one  wouldn't 
mind  so  much — if  it  were  not  a  snapping- turtle.  Yet 
I  did  not  ask  them  more.  Do  we  ever  outgrow  oiu* 
fear  of  being  laughed  at!  Besides,  it  was  just  one  fur- 
ther beautiful  thing  to  find  out  about  in  life.  "Going 
on  fifty"  and  something  more  to  find  out! 

101 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

Then  the  proximity  of  the  rise  of  the  curtain — only 
three  hours  off — again  overwhelmed  me.  I  hurried 
away  on  a  19  bus  hunt,  and  it  was  in  the  bus  at  5.15 
that  I  hissed,  with  finality,  "This  agony  has  got  to 
stop."  And  it  did  beat  its  fierce  wings  against  my 
heart  less  cruelly. 

The  director  came  to  my  dressing-room,  as  he  had 
no  doubt  gone  to  all  the  others  before  we  were  called 
to  the  stage.  ''You  are  going  to  make  the  hit  of  your 
life,"  he  mentally  suggested.  I  smiled  gratefully. 
And  I  smiled  surely,  for  over  my  heart,  underneath 
my  gown,  was  pinned  a  talisman  that  was  working 
like  a  two-dollar  mental-science  treatment. 

It  was  a  silver  shawl-pin  that  once  upon  a  time 
Bonnie  Prince  Charlie  had  given  to  Flora  Macdonald. 
The  English  family  who  had  possessed  it  for  many 
years  were  in  the  habit  of  sending  it  to  various  men 
and  women  of  the  theater  to  give  them  ''calm  cour- 
age" through  a  premiere.  David  Garrick  is  said  to 
have  worn  it,  Mrs.  Sarah  Siddons,  Beerbohm  Tree, 
Forbes  Robertson,  our  own  Doris  Keane  in  "Ro- 
mance," and,  last,  and  surely  least,  it  was  offered  me 
in  remembrance  of  my  appearance  in  London  a  decade 
ago.  Think  of  being  remembered  for  ten  years! 
How  could  I  have  become  disconcerted  over  a  people 
who  had  still  within  them,  among  them,  such  charm- 
ing grace  and  kindliness?  If  the  pin  had  been  a  hoodoo 
of  centuries,  I  am  sure  the  intent  would  have  meta- 
morphosed the  bad  luck  into  good. 

I  don't  know  how  well  I  played  last  night.  My 
comedy  may  have  been  tinged  by  the  tragic  fingerings 
of  Mrs.  Siddons,  my  tragic  moments  affected  by  the 
brilliancy  of  Garrick's  humor,  but,  from  the  first 
summoning  of  the  little  call-boy  with  "Beginners, 

102 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

please,  'm, "  to  the  last  lifting  of  the  curtain  when  the 
company  gathered  about  the  English  producer,  as  he 
addressed  our  ambassador  and  the  audience,  calm 
courage  was  mine.  Merely  suggestion?  What  do  I 
care?    I  was  not  afraid. 

The  English  manager  made  a  little  round  of  the 
dressing-rooms  after  the  play,  climbing  the  many 
stairs  to  thank  us  singly.  I  have  never  known  this 
before,  and  I  am  not  sure  whether  or  no  it  is  the  cus- 
tom over  here,  but  it  was  delightful.  Mrs.  Wren  en- 
deavored to  believe  that  he  came  only  to  my  room. 
It  was  not  the  truth,  but  she  is  already  so  much  on 
my  side  that  she  would  skim  the  milk  intended  for  a 
baby  and  give  me  the  cream.  And  once  more  I  mar- 
veled at  the  generosity  of  these  gentle  souls  in  life 
who  get  their  color,  their  joy  of  living  purely  vicari- 
ously. I  think  we  should  step  aside  to  notice  and  love 
them  more,  and  not  take  them  for  granted.  We 
should  make  a  fuss  over  them.  So,  quite  suddenly,  as 
she  was  fastening  my  boots,  I  stooped  over  and  kissed 
her  on  her  Jenny  Wren  hair.  And  Jenny  Wren  said, 
"Thank  you,  madam." 

I  made  my  way  up  a  main  street  so  dim  from  the 
imposed  restriction  of  lights  that,  while  I  could  tell 
some  men  from  some  women,  I  could  not, discriminate 
between  a  tall  W.  A.  A.  C.  and  a  short  soldier  in 
"British  warms,"  and  all  faces  were  white  blanks  in 
the  darkness.  Yet  these  same  girls,  these  W.  A.  A. 
C.'s,  and  V.  A.  D.'s,  and  W.  R.  A.  F.'s,  this  initialed 
army  of  women  who  must  go  about  alone  at  night, 
have  made  the  dim  highways  safe  for  their  sisters 
for  all  times.  A  pre7nidrc  should  end  in  a  gay  supper 
with  intense  devotion  paid  the  artist.  Instead,  I 
passed  along  the  streets  of  a  cabless,  Tube-striking 

8  103 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

city  to  a  small,  silent  room  and  a  glass  of  milk.  But 
I  felt  as  secure  as  though  "himself"  was  walking  by 
my  side,  holding  my  hand,  as  we  had  walked  ten 
years  ago. 

The  unloneliness  of  going  about  alone  has  come  to 
stay.  It  is  the  gift  of  dead  boys.  This  security  for 
women  is  not  worth  one  soldier's  grave,  yet  the  graves 
are  as  thick  as  furrows  in  a  well-tilled  field.  And 
since  this  must  be,  I  pray  that  every  dead  brother  of 
a  living  girl  may  know  that  this  new  respect  for  women 
is  part  of  the  harvest  of  the  Acre  of  God  in  which  he 
lies. 


Chapter  VIII 

At  the  Housekeeper's. 

MEMORANDA  for  the  day:  Fire-hght- 
ers,  police,  oil  stove,  Fuel  Administration, 
Marcel  wave,  food  rations,  matinee. 

When  a  memorandum  ends  up  with  "matinee" 
one  might  as  well  strike  out  all  the  other  items  except 
the  Marcel  wave  and  the  police  and  go  to  the  theater, 
for  the  day  is  done.  And  it  came  to  me  to-day  as  I 
hurried  from  police  station  to  hair-dresser's  that  three 
matinees  a  week  is  going  to  interfere  seriously  with 
all  other  activities.  There  is  no  use  telling  myself  I 
can  accomplish  anything  "between  the  shows."  War- 
time hours  still  endure.  They  ring  down  late  in  the 
afternoon,  and  ring  up  early  in  the  evening.  The 
audiences  must  get  home  before  midnight,  when  all 
transportation  apparently  ceases.  The  Tubes  are 
again  running,  but,  even  so,  I  can't  imagine  how  so 
many  people  can  find  sufficient  vehicles  to  reach  the 
night  performance  at  approximately  the  same  time. 

Dinner,  of  course,  is  no  longer  a  meal  to  linger 
over.  Almost  any  repast  served  in  London  in  these 
days  can  be  eaten  in  four  minutes,  but  the  effort 
of  reaching  a  playhouse  might  be  called  a  sustained 
one.  Yet,  with  the  marvelous  adaptability  of  the 
English — a  quality  which  we  Americans  are  not  in- 
clined to  grant  them — the  fashionable  theater-goer 

105 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

who  once  rustled  in  at  nine  now  awaits  the  rise  of  the 
curtain  at  eight. 

To  be  sure,  he  takes  his  coffee  during  the  interval 
(I  like  ''interval";  it  is  a  better  word  than  the  French 
''entr'acte,"  and  more  succinct  than  our  awkward 
"between  the  acts"),  and  sometimes  coffee-cups 
clash  unpleasantly.  At  to-day's  matinee  I  could  have 
walked  to  the  rail  of  the  proscenium-box  and  upset 
a  tea-tray  with  enthusiasm,  but  the  occupants  went 
on  taking  their  tea,  though  the  second  act  was  on 
and  the  serious  moment  of  the  play  reached. 

I  ran  in  to  see  an  old  friend  the  other  day,  and  met 
there  the  wife  of  a  peer  who  deplored  with  me  this 
tea-drinking  custom  in  the  auditorium  of  a  theater. 
The  peeress  sighed  and  said,  in  her  pretty  high  voice, 
that  queer  folk  now  sat  in  the  stalls  who  at  one  time 
knew  nothing  lower  than  the  upper  circle.  Money 
had  come  without  manners.  ''It  was  not  so  before 
the  war,"  she  assured  me.  I  smiled  at  this.  It 
sounded  like  our  Southern  boast  of  the  early  '80's: 
"Befo'  the  wah  I  nevah  fastened  my  shoes."  That 
was  the  great  divide  in  the  lives  of  so  many  of  our 
own  country-people,  and  again  war  empties  the  purse 
of  one  man  to  fill  another's. 

I  told  the  peeress  that  I  had  come  out  of  this  fight 
a  poor  woman  rather  than  a  rich  one,  and  she  an- 
swered that  at  least  I  was  in  good  company.  Over 
half  of  the  income  of  the  average  aristocrat  is  taxed 
here,  and  one  peer  figures  that  he  pays  seventeen 
shillings  out  of  every  twenty.  Unlike  the  Southern- 
ers, the  British  do  not  take  pride  in  being  poor — they 
do  not  exploit  it.  They  accept  the  condition  as  an 
Englishman  accepts  most  of  the  vagaries  of  the  war. 
An  American  told  me  last  night  that,  at  the  close  of 

106 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

a  great  dinner-party,  he  found  a  lady  of  title,  whose 
name  decorates  a  famous  old  street,  struggling  into 
her  overshoes,  preparatory  to  walking  home.  She 
did  not  bother  to  explain  that  she  once  had  several 
beautiful  motors.  Of  course  she  had  once  had  them, 
and  of  course  she  had  given  them  up.  The  Southern 
woman  and  the  Englishwoman  made  the  same  sacri- 
fices, but  the  British  sister  will  never  tell  any  one 
that  before  the  war  she  never  fastened  her  shoes. 

The  only  thing  that  surprised  me  in  this  word  from 
the  dining-out  American  was  the  lady's  use  of  any- 
thing as  sensible  as  overshoes.  Now  that  I  can  go 
to  the  housekeeper's  in  the  Tube,  I  meet  the  theater 
crowds  from  the  other  side  the  footlights,  and  these 
same  ladies  of  title  coming  from  just  such  dinner- 
parties. Their  evening  wraps  are  of  gold  brocade 
(grown  rather  stringy),  their  slippers  are  satin,  their 
hair  blows  in  the  rush  of  air  from  the  oncoming  train, 
but  they  refuse  to  admit  that  they  are  not  correctly 
equipped  for  a  journey  underground  with  the  prole- 
tariat. In  America,  a  woman  of  the  same  social 
stratum  would  stay  at  home  if  she  could  not  travel 
comfortably,  or  she  would  resign  herself  to  plain 
Subway  clothes.  But  not  this  woman  who  has  passed 
through  four  years  of  air  raids  and  kept  her  hair 
dressed  as  her  ancestors  taught  her.  It  may  be 
''tiresome"  to  have  her  pale  slippers  stepped  on,  her 
flimsy  wrap  torn  off  her  shoulders,  but  the  centuries 
have  told  her  what  a  lady  should  wear  after  six  o'clock, 
and  she  is  going  to  wear  it. 

Now  why  am  I  going  on  about  peeresses  and  fash- 
ionable life  of  the  Tubes,  when  I  should  be  reporting 
the  exciting  acquirement  of  a  viaisonncttcf  Yet  I  find 
that  I  must  jerk  along  like  this.     All  London  is  at 

107 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

present  so  rich  in  discoveries  that  I  must  comment 
on  them  as  they  come  to  mind,  even  though  my  tale 
will  be  a  devious  one,  with  very  little  sequence  of 
thought. 

Or  is  not  this  inclination  to  fly  off  on  conversational 
tangents  the  result  of  the  London  of  to-day  and  its 
tangled  skein  of  living?  I  find  it  impossible  to  con- 
centrate even  on  my  own  successes,  and  occasionally 
do  talk  of  something  else.  This  is  a  sure  test  of  the 
abnormal  condition  of  a  player.  The  memoranda  for 
the  day  show  how  diverse  are  the  necessitous  demands 
upon  one.  With  an  effort  at  method,  I  will  now  define 
maisonnette',  first,  the  word  in  general  usage;  next, 
my  own  particular  house. 

A  maisonnette  is  a  part  of  an  establishment  that  the 
landlady  doesn't  want.  So  she  rents  it,  furnished — 
generally  furnished — for  enough  to  pay  her  entire 
rental  and  have  an  ''egg  to  her  tea"  besides.  What 
clever  Englishwoman  thought  of  the  enticing  word 
applied  to  a  few  rooms,  with  the  use  of  the  bath,  will 
never  be  divulged.  She  is  no  doubt  a  cousin  to  the 
American  who  gave  the  name  of  kitchenette  to  a 
dark  closet  containing  a  two-burner  gas  stove.  These 
little  "ettes"  of  the  English  language  are  as  the  choco- 
late sauce  on  a  fallen  pudding,  joss-sticks  in  a  house 
with  drains. 

Not  but  that  I  am  delighted  to  have  this  resting- 
place.  Mine  offers  particular  attractions.  It  is  in 
Chelsea,  it  has  trees,  the  landlady  is  a  lady  (this  from 
Beechey  and  Mrs.  Wren— I  don't  care  what  she  is), 
and  it  has  the  "geezer  in  the  bath."  When  I  was 
shown  over  my  future  domain  I  peeped  timidly  into 
the  bath-tub,  which  is  very,  very  deep  and  very, 
very  narrow.     The  bath-room  is  the  one  which  has 

108 


I 

AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

the  rear  door  opening  into  the  garden.  It  was  still 
open,  letting  in  all  outdoors  as  though  it  were  August, 
but  as  geezers  might,  for  all  I  knew,  bathe  as  the 
Japanese  did,  my  first  glance  was  covert.  However, 
there  was  no  old  gentleman  or  no  turtle  anywhere 
about,  yet  at  this  very  moment  the  aristocratic 
landlady  was  telling  me  of  the  advantage  of  her 
own  particular  geezer.  ''It  is  a  very  superior  one." 
she  said. 

I  was  about  to  scare  the  lady  by  blurting  out 
vehemently,  the  way  Americans  do,  my  impatient 
ignorance  of  the  topic,  when  my  eyes  followed  hers, 
and  her  eyes  were  resting  lovingly  on  a  little  copper 
boiler  which  rose  above  the  faucets — excuse  me — 
taps,  and  I  moved  closer  to  descry  the  lettering  on 
the  cylinder,  and  lo!  it  was  a  geyser.  I  suppose  the 
word  is  universally  mispronounced  over  here  because 
they  have  not  been  brought  up  in  a  geyser  country. 
They  probably  pin  their  faith  to  the  man  who  invented 
the  first  copper  cylinder  for  heating  water,  he  himself 
having  picked  the  fanciful  name  out  of  the  dictionary 
as  a  novelist  picks  heroines  from  a  telephone-book. 
More  than  this,  it  was  the  ''Perfect  Geyser,"  and  it 
was  all  mine  once  a  day  for  twopence  extra,  and  "you 
wouldn't  burn  much  gas,  would  you?"  Also  no  one 
was  to  turn  it  on  but  me,  also  it  must  be  kept  polished, 
also  I  must  leave  the  outer  door  open  (but  not  nec- 
essarily while  I  bathed)  so  that  the  steam  might  not 
affect  the  ceiling. 

"But  the  room  will  be  so  cold!"  I  whined. 

"Ah!  you  wouldn't  want  it  too  hot,  would  you?" 

I  am  going  to  like  this  aristocratic  landlady,  but  I 

am  tempted  to  plague  her  into  a  real  rage  to  see  if 

she  will  continue  to  ask  me  courteous  questions  as 

109 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

she  makes  her  re'tort.  ' '  You  aren't  well-bred,  are  you?" 
she  will  probably  query. 

It  is  such  nonsense  for  Americans  to  feel  obliged 
to  respond  to  this  polite  way  of  putting  you  in  the 
wrong.  The  British  avoid  being  in  the  wrong  them- 
selves by  asking  your  opinion  on  the  subject.  They 
defer  to  you.  They  don't  expect  you  to  answer,  yet 
I  wearily  reply,  and  sometimes — not  wearily — some- 
times I  snap.  '^But  you  don't  want  a  paraffin  lamp, 
do  you?"  a  clerk  asked  me,  when  I  had  strayed  by 
error  into  the  electrical  department  of  his  shop. 

*' Yes,  I  do,"  I  roared  back,  ''and  I  want  a  paraffin 
stove,  too." 

''But  you  wouldn't  burn  a  paraffin  stove,  would 
you?"  still  gently  setting  me  right. 

"I  will,  if  I  can  buy  one,"  I  answered,  grimly. 

But  I  couldn't  buy  a  new  one  in  all  London  during 
this  cold  snap.  Although  no  one  approves  of  kerosene 
— paraffin,  as  it  is  called — the  coal  shortage  has  forced 
London  into  this  convenient  method  of  warming  a 
room.  It  is  American,  and  it  is  low,  but  the  stoves 
have  all  been  purchased,  and  in  a  certain  yesterday 
morning's  paper  an  advertisement  can  be  found  which 
runs:  "Wanted:  paraffin  stove  for  heating,  American 
make." 

I  gave  Beechey's  address,  after  charging  her  that 
the  wick  must  be  round.  "You  know  what  a  wick 
is?"  I  asked  her,  sternly. 

"Certainly.  It  is  what  smells  and  smokes.  I  will 
have  them  all  lighted  and  buy  the  one  that  smells 
and  smokes  the  least."  She  does  not  care  for  our 
stoves.  She  prefers  a  wet  log,  guarded  by  fine  antique 
dogs  which  prevent  your  getting  near  whatever  flame 
there  is. 

UO 


'  AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

Beechey  is  to  share  some  of  the  burden  of  setting 
me  to  rights,  for  she  is  to  be  of  my  household.  This 
came  about  when  I  heard  that  the  Enghshwoman  with 
whom  she  had  been  staying  was  subletting,  like 
every  one  else,  and  taking  to  the  country.  Beechey 
has  a  flat  next  to  Sargent's  house.  When  she  first 
,came  to  London  she  daringly  took  it,  although  it 
was  beyond  her  means.  And  so  she  has  never  been 
able  to  live  in  it,  just  as  she  has  never  been  able  to 
meet  Sargent.  But  she  is  his  neighbor,  or  her  flat 
is,  and  she  goes  to  see  all  his  pictures  when  they  are 
hung,  even  though  it  takes  her  last  shilling. 

Once  something  very  thrilling  happened.  She  had 
lost  her  bunch  of  pawn-tickets,  which  always  travel 
with  her,  the  packet  growing  thin  or  thick  as  the 
cottages  in  the  Far  West  are  with  or  without  tenants. 
Her  pride  is  fierce  even  in  a  pawnshop,  so  she  gives 
the  flat  as  her  home  on  the  tickets.  And  to  that  ad- 
dress these  little  stories  of  her  life  were  sent;  rather 
they  were  left  at  her  tenant's  door  in  an  envelope, 
and  some  one  said  they  had  seen  Sargent  himself  go 
into  these  flats  with  an  envelope  in  his  hand,  prac- 
tically sneaked  in  and  undoubtedly  sneaked  out  again 
without  it. 

I  am  sure  if  he  was  the  one  who  returned  them,  and 

if  he  knew  all  about  Beechey,  and  how  much  money 

it  had  cost  her  to  be  his  neighbor,  he  would  have 

put  a  bank-note  in  with  the  tickets  that  she  might 

recover  one  bead  bag,  one  tortoise-shell  comb,  one 

Dutch  snuff-box,  one  cameo  bob-earrings  one — oh, 

well! — all  of  the  things  which  she  always  pawns.    But 

it  would  have  done  her  no  good.     She  would  have 

framed  the  bank-note  because  Sargent  had  touched  it. 

We  have  made  a  business  arrangement.    That  is, 

111 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

she  likes  to  call  it  by  such  a  high-sounding  name, 
but  it  is  difficult  to  connect  her  with  anything  that 
has  to  do  with  dollars  and  cents.  That  my  house- 
keeping will  be  concerned  with  .pounds  and  pence 
makes  Beechey  all  the  more  valuable,  for  she  is  to 
look  after  the  bills,  and  the  ''general,"  in  return  for 
a  place  by  my  fireside  and  what  the  general  cooks 
and  serves.  ''I  do  not  find  English  money  confusing," 
she  said,  with  a  good  deal  of  airiness.  I  suppose  it  is 
simple  enough  with  her.  First,  she  has  it  in  her  purse, 
then  she  hasn't  it. 

But  she  does  not  intend  to  do  that  with  my  money. 
She  ran  out  of  the  dressing-room  on  the  day  I  made  the 
suggestion  to  her  and  came  back  with  an  account- 
book.  The  first  entry  was  already  in  it.  She  had 
borrowed  a  pencil  from  the  clerk  at  the  stationer's 
in  order  to  do  this,  and  had  absent-mindedly  gone  off 
with  it.  The  entry  was  the  cost  of  the  account-book. 
Only  she  had  put  down  the  price  of  it  in  the  penny 
column  instead  of  the  shilling.    "Account-book,  Id." 

"Naturally,  I  am  a  little  nervous,"  said  she,  when 
her  attention  was  called  to  her  loss  of  elevenpence. 
So  she  flew  out  again  to  buy  an  eraser,  which  she 
refused  to  put  down  in  the  book,  as  she  could  use  it 
in  the  studio.  She  fixed  up  the  price  of  the  first  entry 
as  I  looked  over  her  shoulder.  Again  she  had  chosen 
the  wrong  column.  It  was  now,  "Account-book, 
£1."  I  foresee  pleasing  possibilities  in  our  maison- 
keeping  on  which  I  had  not  counted. 

A  shuffling  of  feet  down  the  hall  presages  my  dinner 
tray.  Food  does  not  always  shuffle  in,  but  the  old 
man  from  the  restaurant  who  brings  dinner  into  the 
dressing-rooms  on  matinee  days  has  not  lifted  his 
feet  for  forty  years.    He  is  not  a  clean  old  man  and 

113 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

he  covers  up  the  food  with  green  baize  which  is  prob- 
ably his  porter's  apron.  Still,  it  is  a  meal  of  sorts, 
Mrs.  Wren  managing  to  wangle  any  kind  of  meat  out 
of  them.  To-night  she  has  told  me  triumphantly 
that  there  is  to  be  a  sweet — a  pudding  made  out  of 
macaroni!    Do  I  deserve  all  this? 

The  rain  is  beating  itself  against  my  window,  but 
with  a  hot-water  bag  at  my  feet,  wrapped  in  the 
leading  man's  second-act  dressing-gown — all  unbe- 
knownst to  the  management  who  furnished  it — I  am 
comfortable.  Whatever  "wangle"  is,  Beechey  wangled 
it  out  of  him — not  me.  Not  that  he  can  care  for 
Beechey,  nor  she  for  him,  as  they  are  both  careless 
people,  and  we  must  love  our  opposites.  The  cat, 
Peter,  is  sitting  by  the  radiator  effect,  waiting  to 
see  if  it's  liver  or  just  a  cut  from  the  joint.  There  is 
so  little,  I  am  sure  to  want  it  all,  but  I  cannot  with- 
stand Peter's  fixed  stare.  There  are  two  kinds  of 
beings  in  life:  those  who  give,  and  those  who  get. 
Peter  gets.  .  .  .  The  old  man  has  put  down  his  tray, 
leaving  chaos  in  my  heart.  No,  it  was  not  his  charm 
that  did  it.  It  is  the  post-card  Falstaff  had  given  him 
to  carry  up  to  me.    On  it  Beechey  has  written: 

Lease  signed.  I  forgot  to  say  there  is  absolutely  no  way  of 
getting  back  to  Chelsea  after  the  theater.  But  it  will  come 
out  all  right — it  always  does. 

Lovingly,  Bee. 


Several  days  have  passed,  and  I  have  not  yet  re- 
vealed anything  but  the  bath-room  in  my  maisonnette, 
although  the  original  idea  of  this  chapter  was  to 
dwell  on  such  things.    Even  now  I'm  a  little  vague 

113 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

over  my  possessions.  When  a  tenant  has  not  yet 
departed  and  is  sitting  in  the  drawing-room  which 
you  are  invited  to  inspect,  you  can't  remember  any- 
thing about  the  room  except  the  tenant.  She  tells 
you  to  look  around,  but  you  cannot,  and  while  you 
long  to  ask  her  for  the  defects  of  the  establishment, 
the  landlady  is  always  with  you  and  you  can  only 
remark  falsely  upon  the  excessive  cleanliness  of  the 
place.  You  do  not  look  for  closet  room  or  a  chest 
of  drawers,  and  you  cannot  remember  after  you  have 
gone  out  if  there  is  a  desk. 

I  know  very  well,  however,  that  I  have  two  rooms 
on  the  ground  floor,  the  drawing-room  in  which  we 
eat,  at  the  front,  and  the  bedroom  back  of  it.  Two 
flights  up  is  Beechey's  bedroom.  In  the  basement 
there  is  a  maid's  room,  grudgingly  furnished,  and  a 
too  large  kitchen.  There  is  a  coal  cellar  all  for  me, 
and  one  for  the  landlady,  which  she  keeps  locked, 
and  I  have  as  well  a  ''safe"  in  the  scullery,  which  is 
a  fly-screened  box  with  a  door  that  won't  shut.  The 
scullery  is  the  outdoor  space  underneath  the  front 
stoop.  I  do  not  think  any  one  will  scull  there,  although 
the  day  I  was  inspecting  one  could  have  done  it 
easily  if  he  had  a  boat,  as  it  had  been  raining. 

I  have  a  slot-machine  for  the  gas  stove  in  the 
kitchen  and  an  electric  meter  with  a  hmit  on  it.  Also 
the  landlady  has  been  to  the  Fuel  Administration  in 
Chelsea  Town  Hall,  and  I  will  be  allowed  a  ton  of 
coal — if  I  can  get  it.  Beechey  knows  a  lady  who 
knows  a  lord  who  sells  her  logs  from  his  estate.  Or 
he  may  give  them  to  her,  but  I  wish  to  cast  no  re- 
flections upon  the  woman,  although  if  he  does  give 
her  logs  she  is  in  the  same  class  with  those  who  receive 
pearls.    Beechey  thinks  she  might  get  a  log  or  two 

114 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

whenever  she  takes  tea  with  her.  Carrying  timber 
through  the  streets  does  not  seem  extraordinary  in 
this  day,  and  it  is  not  dangerous.  While  you  might 
be  robbed  of  a  log,  you  can,  on  the  other  hand,  use 
it  as  a  weapon  of  defense  if  attacked. 

As  one  may  see,  I  am  on  my  mettle  when  it  comes 
to  the  heating  arrangements.  Beechey  is  to  have  an 
electric  heater  in  her  bedroom  and  read  by  four  candles 
to  avoid  using  up  my  units  and  getting  fined  in  con- 
sequence. And  we  will  also  burn  quite  a  decent- 
looking  paraffin  lamp  in  the  drawing-room.  I  will 
apply  the  ton  of  coal  in  the  ''front  grate,"  and  my 
bedroom  will  be  heated  by  the  warranted  non-smelling 
second-hand  oil  stove.  This  stove  costs  five  dollars 
in  America  when  new,  and  over  here  eight  dollars 
when  old,  showing  the  value  of  antiquity,  even  in 
sheet-iron.  However,  it  has  a  handle,  and  it  will  go 
on  little  trips  with  me  to  meet  the  geezer.  The  gas 
stove  is  to  be  used  in  the  kitchen,  and  as  far  as  I  can 
make  out  the  maid  in  her  basement  room  is  to  freeze 
to  death  or  die  of  damp. 

There  is  a  grate  in  this  room,  but  when  I  suggested 
to  my  landlady  that  a  fire  should  be  kept  there  also 
she  rephed:  "For  the  servant?  But  you  couldn't 
do  that,  could  you?"  This  equipment  of  the  maid's 
room  interests  me,  for  its  meagerness  is  the  first  light 
on  a  social  condition  that  is  about  as  unsocial  as  a 
church-lawn  fete  on  a  rainy  evening.  Besides  the 
bed,  there  is  a  very  decent  camp-chair,  a  chest  of 
drawers,  a  wash-bowl  and  pitcher — excuse  me,  jug — 
and  two  nails  driven  into  the  door  for  a  wardrobe. 
The  cold  floor  appears  to  be  of  some  sort  of  composi- 
tion, and  there  is  not  even  a  scrap  of  the  ugly  stair 

carpet,  such  as  maids  generally  have,  to  stand  on 

115 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

for  the  morning's  ablutions  or  for  that  icy  moment 
when  she  wheels  out  of  bed  at  dawn.  And  there  is 
no  mirror  of  any  sort,  although  I  am  told  that  one  is 
to  be  procured. 

I  was  able  to  look  about  this  room,  when  on  my 
tour  of  inspection,  with  some  calm  discernment,  as 
the  army  officer's  wife  had  found  it  impossible  to 
get  a  servant  who  would  occupy  this  chilly  chamber, 
so  I  had  it  to  myself.  The  strangest  part  about  this 
room  is  the  aristocrat  who  has  equipped  it.  For  she 
is  a  very  good  sort,  with  a  heart  overflowing  with  love 
for  dogs.  She  has  two  Pomeranians — Powder  and 
Puff — which  show  an  inclination  to  resent  my  ac- 
cent. She  is  very  gentle  with  them.  ''There,  Powder; 
there,  Puff;  you  wouldn't  bite  the  lady,  would  you?" 
She  has  a  maid  of  her  own  who  comes  in  at  8.30, 
departing  at  noon,  and  who  appears  to  work  very 
hard  for  ten  shillings  a  week,  "and  don't  you  touch 
the  food."  I  have  determined  to  do  something  nice 
for  that  maid  when  I  come  in.  In  that  way  she  will 
like  me,  and  I  cannot  live  where  I  am  not  loved.  I 
picture  myself  being  loved  by  the  retainers  in  my 
English  home,  and  their  working  hard  for  me  in 
consequence. 

My  crowning  satisfaction  over  the  heating  acquire- 
ments has  been  the  discovery  of  a  fire-lighter  other 
than  the  Morning  Telegraph.  It  is  nothing  more  than 
our  Cape  Cod  lighter,  rather  meanly  made  of  per- 
forated tin-incasing  asbestos,  on  a  long  toasting-fork 
handle.  The  ironmonger  who  sold  this  did  not  recom- 
mend the  contraption.  He  said  customers  didn't  fancy 
it.  Beechey,  too,  had  known  a  house  to  burn  down, 
and  a  very  good  cook  with  it,  from  pouring  paraffin 

out  of  a  gallon  jar  on  to  a  burning  fire.    I  explained 

116 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

that  I  had  bought  a  small  fruit-jar  with  a  top  and  the 
lighter  should  soak  in  that  a  moment  before  thrusting 
it  beneath  the  coals  and  striking  the  match.  She 
sighed  and  said,  anyway,  it  was  not  beautiful. 

I  wish  that  Sargent  would  paint  a  portrait  with 
one  of  these  inventions  in  the  hand  of  his  subject.  It 
would  make  my  house  run  with  less  opposition.  Still, 
I  have  something  to  be  thankful  for:  I  have  just  read 
that  Queen  Mary,  favoring  a  certain  atomizer,  at  a 
recent  bazaar,  has  caused  a  tremendous  run  on  them. 
And  I  suppose  I  should  be  grateful  that  Her  Majesty 
has  not  shown  a  predilection  for  oil  stoves. 

To-day  I  went  up  to  Chelsea  for  my  ration-card, 
which  is  secured  in  a  large  empty  room  at  the  Chelsea 
branch  of  the  Food  Administration.  After  waiting 
for  a  while  for  my  slip  I  was  obliged  to  go  away  and 
fill  it  out  somewhere  else.  The  official  said,  as  they 
did  at  the  police  station,  that  if  I  filled  it  out  there 
the  room  would  become  too  crowded.  I  can't  imagine 
how  I  could  so  suddenly  multiply  while  filling  out  a 
paper,  but  I  did  not  put  up  an  argument  for  fear  1 
should  be  politely  crushed  by  interrogations.  How- 
ever, I  did  not  crowd  the  stone  steps  outside  the  room, 
for  that  is  where  I  sat,  unknown  to  the  officials,  as 
I  again  wrote  dowTi  my  age  and  general  condition, 
with  a  bottle  of  inlc  and  a  pen  borrowed  surrepti- 
tiously from  a  long  empty  table  within,  where  I 
could  just  as  well  have  been. 

In  a  surprisingly  short  time — to  the  officials — I 

returned  with  the  papers,  and  as  I  waited  for  my  book 

I  gloomily  read  the  printed  evidence  on  the  walls  of 

the  heavy  fines  levied  upon  abandoned  creatures  who 

had  eaten  too  much  margarine.    It  is  an  offense  which 

I  will  endeavor  not  to  commit.    Indeed,  as  you  take 

117 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

your  turn  at  these  various  controls  in  London,  any 
inclination  to  disobey  oozes  out  of  your  system  and 
a  real  awe  possesses  you,  yes,  and  a  respect  for  this 
machinery  which  has  been  set  running  by  a  people 
on  a  little  island  that  the  war  might  go  on  and  on 
until  they  had  won.  My  ration-book  was  a  fairly 
fat  one,  although  had  I  been  an  ''expectant  mother" 
I  could  have  had  a  great  deal  more.  Expectant 
mothers,  according  to  the  notices  at  the  Food  Admin- 
istration, really  have  the  best  of  it.  Just  a  plain 
mother,  a  mother  already,  seems  to  receive  no  more 
consideration  than  the  rest  of  us. 

From  there  I  went  to  Beechey's  barn  of  a  studio, 
where  she  was  painting  a  portrait  of  a  Chow  dog. 
The  Chow  dog  had  not  ordered  a  portrait,  but  she 
was  doing  him  as  he  was  about  the  only  kind  of  a 
model  who  enjoyed  posing  in  the  cold.  He  lay  on  the 
model-stand,  far  from  the  stove,  sticking  out  his 
black  tongue  at  me  as  I  draped  myself  over  the  little 
structure  holding  a  few  coals. 

Although  Beechey  was  very  anxious  to  put  more  hair 
on  the  dog,  I  inveigled  her  out  on  a  quest  for  some 
sort  of  a  vehicle  that  would  get  me  home  from  the 
theater  at  night.  It  was  decided  that  a  choice  of 
three  buses  would  take  me  down  in  the  evening,  as 
I  would  not  then  be  traveling  in  the  rush  hour,  but 
there  would  be  no  getting  home  at  night  unless  I 
walked  the  distance  from  the  South  Kensington  Tube, 
which  was  again  showing  an  inclination  to  strike, 
leaving  one  between  stations. 

Beechey  said  it  would  be  no  trouble  at  all  to  get  a 
taxi  from  one  of  the  many  small  garages  in  the  neigh- 
borhood. She  has  an  idea  that  anything  can  be  done 
with  money — my  money.    She  preferred  that  I  would 

118 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

get  the  cab  from  a  man  who  occupies  a  building  erected 
by  Queen  Anne.  A  tablet  in  the  wall  says  so,  and 
little  Queen  Anne  boys  and  girls  went  to  school  there. 
It  is  hard  to  believe  in  boys  and  girls  during  the 
period  of  this  monarch.  One  can  think  only  of  fur- 
niture going  to  school,  bureaus  and  chests  of  drawers, 
and  many-legged  tables  receiving  an  education  on 
how  to  be  elegant,  pure,  and  austere. 

Of  the  many  garages  we  visited,  the  proprietor  of 
this  one  was  the  only  man  who  would  entertain  driv- 
ing me  home  under  any  circumstances.  He  was 
ready  to  make  a  ''special"  of  it  in  a  special  motor 
which  was  not  generally  used.  Beechey  thought  this 
was  wonderful;  I  could  hear  her  telling  her  friends 
I  had  my  own  car;  but  I  drifted  out  of  the  estab- 
lishment after  I  had,  upon  request,  seen  the  cab.  It 
was  very  special  indeed,  as  it  was  undoubtedly  built 
at  the  time  of  Queen  Anne,  along  with  the  bureaus, 
and,  poor  creature,  didn't  know  it  was  like  a  lady  and 
couldn't  improve  with  age. 

The  proprietor  was  resentful.  It  was  evident  I  had 
not  sufficient  appreciation  of  a  "museum  piece,"  and 
he  said,  offhand,  that  a  growler  would  probably  do 
me.  A  growler,  according  to  my  understanding  of 
the  word,  would  have  done  me  very  well,  as  I  was  tired. 
But  the  bars  are  not.  open  till  G.30,  and,  even  so,  had 
I  secured  a  growler  and  "rushed"  it,  that  would  not 
get  me  home  from  the  theater  every  night — quite  the 
reverse.  Besides,  it  was  very  impertinent  in  the  man, 
and  I  told  him  all  these  things,  leaving  him  in  a  sort 
of  daze.  I  blame  the  whole  misunderstanding  on 
Beechey,  who  didn't  apprise  me  until  we  were  two 
blocks  away — excuse  me,  the  second  turning  away — 
that  a  growler  was  a  four-wheeled  cab  which  enjoys 

9  119 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

staying  out  all  night.  "That's  that,"  as  they  say 
over  here,  and  I  let  the  matter  drop — hut  I  should 
really  like  to  know  how  a  receptacle  for  beer  and  a 
large  cab  with  four  wheels  should  have  received  the 
same  sobriquet. 

Before  I  finished  my  cab-hunt  I  came  to  the  con- 
clusion that  it  was  used  as  a  figure  of  speech  in  the 
case  of  the  four-wheeler.  Metonymy,  isn't  it? 
The  container  for  the  thing  contained.  For  I  was 
growling  frightfully.  "Everything  is  so  difficult,"  I 
exclaimed,  grumpily.  "The  only  comfort  is  that  I 
have  a  home  across  the  water  to  go  back  to." 

Beechey  was  silent  for  a  moment.  "Yes,"  she 
finally  replied,  "but  I  am  thinking  of  the  millions  and 
millions  who've  been  up  against  these  difficulties  for 
almost  five  years,  and  who  can't  run  anywhere,  for 
they're  at  home  right  here." 

Then  I  was  very  ashamed  for  finding  life  difficult 
because  I  couldn't  find  a  growler,  and  was,  as  a  reward, 
put  on  the  track  of  one  by  a  woman  who  came  up 
from  a  black  cellar  with  a  sign  of  "Mangling"  in  the 
window,  where  she  was  living  with  her  children.  Her 
husband  was  a  carter,  but  they  went  in  good  society, 
for  they  had  a  friend  who  was  a  "fly  proprietor." 
You  may  take  this  any  way  you  please.  If  he  was 
indeed  "fly,"  he  would  probably  get  the  better  of  me 
in  the  bargain,  but  I  didn't  care.  I  was  at  that 
weary-legged  stage  when  I  would  ride  home  in  a 
growler  or  a  fly  at  any  price  named.  Only,  in  these 
days  of  one  hundred  miles  an  hour  through  the  air, 
it  amuses  one  a  little  to  think  of,  the  dead-and-gone 
man  who  first  called  a  clumsy,  crawling,  earthbound 
vehicle  a  fly. 

And  I  must  step  aside — again — to  speak  of  this 

120 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

woman  who  came  out  of  the  cellar,  for  she  was  beau- 
tiful, she  was  radiantly  beautiful  and  young,  with 
signs  of  toil  as  yet  only  in  her  poor  cracked  hands. 
And  I  thought  how  wonderful  she  was  to  go  on  living 
in  a  cellar  when  she  possessed  so  marketable  a  com- 
modity as  loveliness.  Yes,  and  knew  it.  Eve  and 
all  her  daughters  intuitively  know  that  beauty  can 
bring  a  price.  It  is  easy  enough  for  us  plain  ones  to 
be  good,  but  the  real  Spartan  is  the  underfed,  over- 
worked woman  who  continues  a  drudge  although  in 
these  days  of  strong  excitements  one  little  promenade 
down  the  Strand  would  bring  her  in  more  than  she 
could  make  by  mangling  in  a  score  of  years. 

Beechey  had  stopped  to  speak  to  her,  and  when 
she  caught  up  with  me  I  myself  ran  back.  The  woman 
was  still  in  the  doorway,  a  baby  at  her  bosom.  ''I 
just  want  to  tell  you,"  I  stammered,  ''that  you've 
been  very  kind,  and  that — that  you  are  very 
beautiful." 

The  woman  smiled  even  more  broadly.  "The  lidy 
with  you,  she  said  that  just  naow,  but  she  put  it  dif- 
ferent, ma'am." 

"She  did." 

"She  said,  'With  yer  nipper  in  yer  arms,  yer 
beautiful.    Always  keep  the  baby  in  yer  arms.' " 

Wise  Miss  Beechey! 

It  was  after  an  arrangement  with  the  proprietor, 
who  was  only  fairly  fly,  was  completed  that  I  began 
once  more  to  enjoy  Chelsea,  and  to  feel  that  I  would 
soon  become  a  partner  in  its  homeyness.  Surely 
every  visitor  in  time  appreciates  the  sense  of  littleness 
that  London  manages  to  convey  even  though  it  is  the 
most  vast  of  cities.  Each  little  town — Mayfair, 
Kensington,  Bloomsbury,  Chelsea,  et  al,  which  go. 

121 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

together  to  form  the  municipality — still  preserves  its 
separate  entity.  Individual  interests  are  preserved. 
In  the  shop- windows  may  be  posted  a  reward  for  the 
loss  of  a  purse  in  that  district,  or  a  little  missing  dog 
is  described  in  the  handwriting  of  his  master.  Or 
other  placards  in  a  feminine  hand  beseech  the  school- 
children to  look  out  for  a  cat  answering  to  the  name 
of  "Susy."  As  though  any  cat  answered  to  any  name! 
Or  there  is  to  be  a  dance  at  the  Chelsea  Town  Hall. 
An  old  illumination  points  a  finger  in  the  direction 
of  an  air-raid  shelter.  Dreadful  rules  are  painted 
on  park  boards  as  to  the  behavior  of  perambulators. 
A  grocer  notifies  us  that  the  lid  is  off  "Marge,"  using 
an  English  expression,  of  course,  equivalent  to  "lid." 
All  of  it  is  somehow  extremely  simple  and  personal, 
and  one  can  understand  how  lonesome  a  Londoner 
might  be  when  meeting  with  the  sweeping  generalities 
of  New  York  City. 

I  walked  happily  with  Beechey  toward  the  King's 
Road.  "Now  everything  is  arranged  for,  except  the 
dish-cloths,  and  we'll  move  in."  The  bus  was  ap- 
proaching and  I  held  it  firmly  with  my  eye.  "Oh  yes, 
I  forgot.  Of  course,  there's  the  servant."  I  put  my 
foot  on  the  bus,  subduing  it. 

I  could  hear  Beechey  above  the  snarling  of  the 
creature  echoing  my  words,  "Of  course,  there  is  the 
servant."  But  she  was  giving  my  casual  exclamation 
a  certain  tragic  reading,  as  though  it  were  a  casualty. 

I  called  back  to  her,  as  the  bus  endeavored  to 
shake  me  off  the  platform,  "But  I'll  get  one  to- 
morrow." I  couldn't  hear  her  after  that — not  plainly 
— owing  to  19  bus  grinding  its  gears  at  me;  but  as  I 
set  this  down  I  am  struck  with  the  thought  that  in 

almost  every  chapter  somebody  laughs  at  me. 

122 


Chapter  IX 

At  a  Woman's  Club. 

IT  IS  summer!  And  I  should  begin  this  paragraph 
with  a  verse  of  poetry,  as  the  Enghsh  papers 
start  off  their  news  items,  for  I  am  glad  it  is 
summer,  and  am  glad  I  am  at  this  club  in  charming 
Mayfair.  If  I  step  out  on  my  iron  balcony  I  can  see 
the  green  of  Hyde  Park.  If  I  make  one  turning  from 
off  my  street  I  am  in  as  delightful  a  jumble  of  old 
furniture-shops,  and  flower-stalls,  and  vegetable- 
markets,  and  duchesses'  palaces  as  one  could  find  in 
the  heart  of  Rome. 

The  upper  chambermaid,  who  does  the  rooms  on 
the  lower  floors,  potters  in  and  out,  and  does  not  dis- 
turb me,  as  I  write,  with  news  of  the  ill  behavior  of 
Jerusalem  artichokes,  shooting  their  green  sprouts 
recklessly  about,  or  the  indecency  of  the  ''geyser 
wot  hisses"  at  her.  Beechey  does  not  enter  my 
room  at  the  moment  of  evolving  a  sentence  containing 
almost  an  idea,  and  burst  into  tears  because  she  for- 
got to  clean  her  brushes.  I  am  an  old,  old  woman, 
broken  by  three  months'  housekeeping  in  Chelsea — 
three  months  of  generous  effort  to  give  to  an  unap- 
preciative  world  a  solution  of  the  servant  problem. 
I  am  old  and  alone,  and  I  am  glad  I  am  alone  and 
almost  glad  I  am  old.  When  1  am  sure  I  am  glad  I  am 
old  I  can  write  Finis  to  this  book.  For  I  know  that 
one  must  not  only  accept,  but  be  happy  in  being  old, 

123 


AN  A]\J:ERICAN'S  LONDON 

if  she  is  entirely  normal,  just  as  youth  takes  pride 
in  its  slender  stock  of  years. 

You  may  read  into  this  hiatus,  this  gulf  of  silence 
from  spring  to  summer,  doings  both  grim  and  gay. 
Certainly  I  did  not  know  that  the  last  chapter  was 
to  be  the  end  of  my  diary,  and  I  fear  my  editors  did 
not.  Nor  were  they  encouraged  by  my  cables  ex- 
plaining the  cessation  of  literary  effort.  In  March  I 
regretted  delay,  changing  cooks.  In  April  regretted 
delay,  ten  performances  weekly.  In  May  regretted 
delay,  spring  is  here.  That  they  did  not  reply  with 
the  regret  I  ever  existed  shows  that  a  publisher  thinks 
twice  before  he  cables  once.  Upon  thinking  twice  he 
probably  considered  himself  well  rid  of  these  defective 
side-lights  on  English  living. 

I  don't  see  how  a  woman  keeps  a  diary,  anyway. 
If  she  has  time  to  write  it,  she  hasn't  time  to  have 
anything  happen  to  her  worth  writing  about.  More 
than  that,  one  needs  perspective.  It's  all  very  well 
to  keep  a  line  a  day.  That  prevents  an  inconstant 
reader  sending  a  publisher  word  that  the  King's 
garden-party  was  on  the  11th,  not  on  the  12th,  and 
the  men's  favors  were  not  rosettes,  but  ribbon  bows 
with  one  end  longer  than  the  other.  And  when  one 
has  time  to  look  back  and  reflect  one  finds  that  the 
important  event  of  Monday  morning  has  no  sig- 
nificance by  Saturday  night.  The  man  who  lives  up  to 
''Never  put  off  till  to-morrow  what  you  can  do  to- 
day "  may  have  spent  a  large  part  of  his  time  accom- 
plishing the  unessential. 

Then  one  makes  statements  which,  if  one  could  get 
the  manuscript  back,  would  be  changed.  I  wish  I 
had  not  said  so  much  about  not  going  to  London  to 
escape  the  plaints  of  lovers,  nor  assumed  that  a  do- 

124 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

mestic  complication  had  not  a  young  man  behind  it. 
I  confess  a  vacillation  of  mind.  I  am  a  bit  like  Hugh 
Walpole,  who  told  us  all  about  Russia  in  The  Dark 
Forest,  and  in  a  preface  to  his  second  Russian  book, 
The  Secret  City,  informed  us  that  anything  he  said  in 
The  Dark  Forest  was  wrong. 

I  look  over  the  uncorrected  carbon  copy  I  have 
kept  for  myself  of  the  preceding  eight  chapters,  and 
observe  that  I  was  about  to  get  a  servant,  and  was 
cheerful  over  it.  Why  did  I  not  slip  in  something 
about  a  shudder  going  through  my  frame  as  I  uttered 
those  words? — suggest  that  I  was  sensible  of  an  im- 
pending doom?  I  remember  perfectly  the  breakfast 
that  morning,  before  I  started  out  for  a  maid,  and  my 
utter  unconcern  over  a  report  in  my  paper  to  the 
effect  that  the  ladies  of  a  neighboring  town  had  de- 
cided at  a  convention  to  call  their  servants,  in  the 
future,  Miss  or  Mrs.,  according  to  their  estate  in 
life.  I  did  not  muse  upon  the  motive — whether  fear 
or  fondness — that  caused  these  ladies  to  adopt  a  super- 
respectful  attitude  toward  their  domestics,  after  cen- 
turies of  indifference  to  anything  but  the  work  they 
got  out  of  them.  I  had  that  eternal  hope  of  a  ''gem" 
which  accompanies  a  woman  as  far  as  the  desk  of  an 
Intelligence  Bureau.  I  still  believed  that  1  should 
call  my  general  by  her  last  name,  as  she  would  call 
me  ''modom." 

Mrs.  Wren  had  picked  out  my  intelligence  bureau 
the  night  before,  calling  it  a  registry  office.  She  had 
put  on  her  bonnet  and  run  to  a  theater  across  the  way 
to  ask  advice  of  a  dancer  who,  like  most  dancers, 
was  a  sedate  householder  with  an  eye  to  the  purse- 
strings.  The  dancer  sent  her  compliments,  said  nice 
things  about  a  book  I  once  wrote  of  English  life  (I 

125 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

trust  she  will  never  see  this  one),  and  wrote  down  an 
address  and  the  number  of  the  bus  which  would  lead 
me  to  it,  all  of  which  I  promptly  lost.  However,  1 
remembered  the  bus  number,  and  I  thought  if  I  gave 
the  conductor  sixpence,  he,  or  she,  might  look  out 
for  me. 

It  was  a  he,  an  observing  man  to  the  point  of 
clairvoyance.  I  got  no  farther  than,  '^I  want  to  go 
along  the  Fulham  Road  till  I  find — "  when  he  com- 
pleted my  phrase  with,  "Mrs. ,  the  registry,  481." 

He  was  a  man  wasted  on  a  bus ;  he  should  be  sitting 
behind  a  crystal  ball,  telling  about  a  dark  rival  and 
a  journey.  ''How  did  you  know  I  wanted  to  go  there?" 
I  asked  him. 

"It's  the  face  that  does  it,  anxious-like.  I  picks 
'em  out.    All  the  lidies  'as  it." 

For  the  first  time  that  day  I  felt  the  chill  of  the  rain! 
You  know — suddenly  your  skirts  are  wet?  And  I 
moved  down  toward  the  door,  so  as  to  get  out  ahead 
of  another  very  anxious-looking  lady  who  might,  by 
a  few  inches'  advantage,  secure  my  treasure.  I  had 
a  vision  of  calling  out,  as  she  would  patter, 
breathless,  behind  me,  from  the  bus  to  the  registry 
door,  "I'm  first;  I'm  first,"  as  one  claims  sanctuary. 

The  lady  got  down  when  I  did,  and  she  entered  the 
office  some  two  paces  behind  me,  but  she  secured  the 
only  female  in  the  many  rooms,  in  the  United  King- 
dom, I  should  say,  who  was  in  need  of  work.  There 
were  preliminaries.  I  paid  a  half-crown  for  the  honor 
of  filling  out  a  blank  which  committed  me  to  paying 
twenty  shillings  on  securing  a  servant,  but  as  I  did 
not  have  to  return  to  the  housekeeper's,  five  miles 
away,  to  make  out  the  papers,  it  was  worth  the  money. 
A  registry  office  is  the  only  place  you  can  write  down 

12§ 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

your  full  name  without  going  at  least  as  far  as  the 
gutter  to  do  it. 

My  adversary  had  the  advantage  of  me,  as  she 
was  known  to  the  large  blond  attendant  who  was 
trying  hard  to  put  it  all  over  me  with  her  accent. 
Or  perhaps  only  Americans  are  asked  to  pay  half- 
crowns.  Still,  I  was  glad  to  do  it,  for  the  single  do- 
mestic in  the  room  was  looking  on,  and  when  she  saw 
with  what  good  grace  I  relinquished  a  half-crown  she 
would,  naturally,  prefer  to  be  in  my  generous  employ. 

Yet  she  did  not  prefer  it !  She  muttered  something 
to  the  blond  lady  manager,  who  made  signs  which 
resulted  in  my  adversary  and  the  girl  going  off  into 
a  remote  cubicle,  probably  to  poke  fun  at  me.  I 
looked  inquiring.  "Phyllis"  (and  her  name  was  Phyl- 
lis!) "doesn't  care  to  go  to  an  American,  madam," 
explained  the  manageress,  attaching  to  this  state- 
ment no  air  of  surprise,  but  as  one  might  say,  ''Phyllis 
would  prefer  not  to  enter  the  household  of  boa- 
constrictors." 

"Why  not?"  I  immediately  asked. 

The  attendant  shrugged  her  shoulders — a  poor 
shrug,  copied  from  visiting  Belgians.  "They  prefer 
EngUsh  ways.  Anything  new  fusses  them,  doesn't 
it,  madam?" 

I  thought  of  that  bedroom  in  my  maisonnette,  without 
a  mirror,  and  a  bare  floor,  with  two  nails  for  the  ward- 
robe, and  then  of  the  sort  of  room  a  mistress  of  the 
same  position  in  life  would  offer — would  be  obliged 
to  offer — a  maid  at  home,  and  I  wondered  if  it  would 
really  fuss  them  if  they  had  what  comforts  their 
ugly  lives  surely  entitle  them  to.  Or  must  we  teach 
them  even  to  accept  comforts? 

I  didn't  appreciate  it  then,  but  this  interrogatory 

127 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

statement  of  the  clerk  is  one  of  the  stumbhng-blocks 
to  the  future  happiness  of  the  Enghsh  servant.  She  is 
no  longer  content.  She  has  reached  that  milestone — 
has  achieved  it.  But  she  has  weary  years  of  tradition 
to  overcome  before  she  can  accept  the  new  order  of 
things  with  any  degree  of  satisfaction.  ''It  fusses 
her."  The  British  lower  class  doesn't  like  to  be 
fussed.  It  exercises  new  muscles  in  the  brain,  and  this 
is  fatiguing.  It  is  easier  to  go  along — growling,  but 
accepting. 

I  say  hastily,  now,  before  my  British  friends  arm 
themselves  with  pen  and  paper,  that  they  are  not 
unkind  mistresses.  They  are  very  kind.  I  have 
never  heard  an  English  voice  rate  a  servant  as  I  have 
heard  an  American  voice  do.  The  mistresses  are  civil, 
but  the  civility,  to  my  American  mind,  is  only  voice- 
deep.  The  old  feudal  system  obligated  a  certain 
decent  attitude  toward  the  serf,  but  it  is  an  attitude 
of  manner,  not  of  concern.  Yet,  so  far,  the  British 
servant  prefers  it. 

I  expressed  some  surprise  to  the  blonde  over  the 
emptiness  of  her  rooms.  I  felt  that  my  half-crown 
entitled  me  to  freedom  of  speech,  and  she  informed  me 
she  would  send  out  post-cards  so  that  I  might  have 
an  array  from  which  to  pick  the  following  noon. 
She  had  a  card-filing  index  of  a  thousand  names  or 
so,  and  began  shooting  the  drawers  back  and  forth 
so  recklessly  displaying  applicants  that  I  besought  her 
not  to  bring  together  too  many  at  one  time,  as  they 
would  prove  an  embarrassment  of  riches. 

She  intimated  that  she  would  try  hard  not  to. 
She  thought  she  could  get  me  something  very  smart 
for  thirty  shillings.  I  replied  that  I  wanted  some- 
thing very  smart  for  twenty.    I  had  learned  from  the 

128 


AN  AIMERICAN'S  LONDON 

dancer  that  the  average  general  who  has  her  bed 
and  board  receives  fifteen  shillings  a  week,  but  I 
don't  think  that  fifteen  is  enough  for  a  woman,  for 
any  kind  of  a  woman,  even  a  general.  One  would 
think  that  a  general  should  receive  more  money  than 
servants  whose  talents  are  limited  to  making  beds 
or  dusting  parlor  furnitiu-e — if  rank  counts  for  any- 
thing— but  this  is  the  case  only  among  the  military. 
The  poor  creature  who  cooks  and  serves,  lays  fires 
and  climbs  stairs,  has  small  recognition  in  civil  life. 
The  harder  she  works  the  less  she  gets,  and  I  suppose 
by  this  inverse  ratio,  if  she  did  the  washing  and  took 
care  of  the  garden,  she  would  receive  no  money  at  all. 

Beechey  called  at  the  theater  that  night  to  report 
that  she  had  the  dish-cloths  and  had  bought  stores 
from  the  Stores.  She  had  purchased  several  kinds 
of  Indian  meal,  as  she  had  cut  out  some  recipes  from 
a  certain  paper  so  as  to  give  variety  to  the  menus.  I 
spoke  from  out  the  experience  of  eighteen  years' 
housekeeping,  "Cooks  find  difficulty  with  newspaper 
recipes." 

"Not  with  these,"  she  returned,  calmly.  "The 
printing  is  so  clear." 

When  I  told  her  that  an  army  of  smart  generals 
would  be  awaiting  my  selection  the  following  noon, 
she  grew  restless,  squinting  at  my  figure  as  though 
she  were  painting  it,  and  finally  advanced  the  theory 
that  she  should  do  the  choosing.  "I  will  be  brought 
in  contact  with  her  more  than  you,  since  I  am  to 
look  after  the  housekeeping,"  she  explained,  "and  it 
will  be  important  to  have  some  one  with  whom  I 
am  spiritually  sympathetic." 

I  granted  this  for  two  reasons.     One,   that  she 

wanted  it,   and  another  that  I  had  to  seek  some 

129 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

method  of  getting  my  two  modest  trunks  and  odd 
bits  of  baggage  from  the  housekeeper's  to  the  maison- 
nette the  following  day.  My  friend  the  American 
Express  Company  (I  speak  of  it  often,  as  I  own  four 
shares  of  stock  in  the  concern)  could  not  promise  to 
call  at  a  certain  hour,  and,  as  it  was  a  matinee  day — 
as  usual — the  fiat  would  be  closed  after  twelve. 
This  news  is  not  worthy  of  a  paragraph,  except  to 
accentuate  again  the  amount  of  tune  and  trouble 
which  must  be  expended  upon  the  simplest  details 
of  living.  It  ended,  I  may  add,  in  my  paying  a  van 
proprietor  four  dollars  for  moving  my  slight  impedi- 
menta. He  said  it  couldn't  possibly  be  done  for  less 
than  three-fifty,  and  when  he  was  sure  I  was  an 
American  he  said  it  would  be  a  great  strain  on  his 
'orse,  and  ^'upped"  me  two  shillings.  However,  he 
descended  the  baggage  without  assistance,  which  was 
a  relief,  as  the  housekeeper  and  I  had  spent  three 
days  worrying  over  who  would  take  the  trunks  down 
the  stairs,  since  the  bootblack  on  the  corner  had  the 
"flu."  This  may  not  appear  clear,  but  it  fairly  out- 
lines London's  business  processes  at  the  time. 

And  the  next  day  Beechey  reported  that  she  had 
engaged  a  cook.  Upon  sifting  down  the  story  of  her 
glorious  encounter  with  the  regiment,  she  had  en- 
gaged the  cook.  Two  had  presented  themselves  at  the 
agency,  one  who  was  willing  to  come  every  day,  and 
one  who  would  come  only  three  days  out  of  the  week. 
The  blonde  made  every  effort  to  secure  the  job  for 
the  cook  who  cooked  but  occasionally. 

''But  we  eat  on  the  other  days,  too,"  Beechey  told 
her,  ''and  we  want  fires  in  the  grate  kept  going  all 
the  time." 

The  blond  Belgian  shrugged  again,  and  Beechey 

130 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

went  off  into  a  cubicle  with  the  girl  who  was  willing 
to  stay  all  the  time.  I  don't  know  what  Beechey 
asked  her  in  the  inquisitorial  chamber.  She  should 
have  begun  with  references,  then  to  soup,  and  so 
on  through  the  table  d'hote,  but  she  probably  told  her, 
as  I  know  I  would,  that  it  was  a  very  nice  place,  with 
almost  no  work  to  do  and  every  evening  out. 

My  friend  admitted  that  she  had  engaged  her  before 
asking  for  her  character.  In  fact,  she  never  thought 
of  it  at  all,  as  her  artistic  associates  have  but  few 
characters  among  them,  and  she  returned  to  the 
blonde,  when  the  maid  said  she  would  come  for  six- 
teen shillings  a  week,  to  whisper  to  her  that  she 
thought  that  was  too  little.  The  manageress  had 
stared,  and  when  she  was  sure  she  had  heard  aright 
advised  Beechey  to  kee  pthe  raise  for  a  little  encourage- 
ment when  the  range  broke  down  or  the  sewer 
backed  up. 

"Then  what  did  you  really  learn  about  her?"  I 
ventured  to  inquire. 

"I  learned  that  she  would  surely  come,  and" — a 
pause  here — "I  learned  her  name." 

"What  is  her  name?" 

Stackpoie  passed  tlirough  my  mind,  Mortlake, 
Sutton — good  English  last  names  sounding  well  before 
guests. 

"Her  name,"  said  Beechey,  in  a  xow  tone,  "her 
name  is  Gladys." 

"No,  no!"  I  cried. 

"Yes,  it  is.  But  she  has  a  beautiful  complexion. 
And,  more  than  that,  she  is  a  soldier's  daughter. 
Her  father  is  still  in  France." 

"Oh  well,  why  didn't  you  say  that  in  the  first 
place?"  I  exclaimed,  completely  won  over. 

131 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

"I  kept  the  best  till  the  last,"  said  Beechey,  her 
face  shining. 

The  next  night  I  was  to  move  in,  and  the  morning 
after  that,  at  8.30,  Gladys  was  to  be  received  by 
Beechey  and  introduced  into  the  mysteries  of  making 
coffee,  which  my  friend  contended  was  best  accom- 
plished in  a  saucepan.  All  this  time  I  was  to  be  asleep, 
scarcely  awaking  as  Gladys  would  creep  noiselessly 
in  and  start  the  fire  in  the  drawing-room.  Not  until  the 
breakfast  tray  was  brought  to  my  bedside  by  Gladys, 
with  "Good  morning,  madam,"  would  I  luxuriously 
arouse  myself. 

My  trunks  departed  identically  with  the  sixteen 
shillings;  the  rest  of  the  day  was  spent  in  the  theater, 
and  at  eleven  o'  night  the  fireman  who  was  on  duty 
after  nine  announced  that  ''Mrs.  'He's  brougham  is 
waiting."  That  was  very  satisfactory  to  Mrs.  Wren, 
and  she  called  so  much  attention  to  my  departure 
that  the  members  of  the  company  stuck  their  heads 
out  of  their  dressing-room  doors  and  wished  they  had 
some  rice  to  throw  on  me. 

I  didn't  look  as  though  I  should  have  rice,  or  should 
have  a  brougham.  All  day  Beechey  had  been  "tele- 
phoning through"  to  ask  if  I  could  manage  to  secure 
matches,  coffee,  hand-towels,  eggs,  bread,  some 
"cheerful"  flowers,  and  kindling.  The  stores  had 
not  come  from  the  Stores,  and  the  shops  were  closed 
Thursday  afternoon  in  Chelsea.  Mrs.  Wren  very 
wonderfully  procured  all  of  these  commodities,  add- 
ing a  quartern  of  gin  and  a  piece  of  cheese  as  her 
contribution  to  the  new  house.  I  went  out  looking 
like  a  war-time  Santa  Glaus,  and  with  ever  so  big  a 
fear  in  my  heart  that  the  brougham  would  not  let 
me  in  it.    When  I  saw  it  was  just  a  homely  old  growler, 

132 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

with  a  homely  old  man  driving  a  horse  not  proud, 
nor  yet  too  skinny  nor  exhausted-looking,  I  felt  re- 
lieved. And  when  the  cabby  told  me  that  the  beast 
was  a  war-horse  and  had  just  been  brought  from 
France,  the  exaggerated  sum  I  was  paying  for  driving 
home  every  night  ceased  to  be  an  item  for  vexation. 
It  was  nothing  more  nor  less  than  a  horse  pension. 

I  leaned  forward  in  my  hard  little  four-wheeler, 
as  we  drove  up  Pall  Mall,  and  looked  through  the 
window-glass,  blurred  with  rain.  I  let  down  the  win- 
dow at  the  left,  just  as  we  were  passing  Marlborough 
House.  Ten  years  ago,  as  I  drove  home  over  this 
route,  securing  one  of  those  new  and  dangerous  taxis 
if  possible,  the  sentry  who  stood  without  the  gates 
was  a  brilliant  target  in  red.  Twenty  years  ago, 
during  the  Boer  War,  he  wore  the  same  gay  uniform. 
Now,  as  I  took  this  familiar  drive  homeward,  I  found 
a  sober  creature  doing  his  sentry-go  in  dull  yellow. 
As  we  turned  into  the  Mall  at  St.  James's  Palace,  the 
silver  bell  of  the  clock  was  striking  the  quarter,  and 
smartly  around  the  corner  marched  the  guard,  on 
what  I  presumed  to  be  a  tour  of  inspection,  for  I 
met  the  little  company  many  nights  after  that,  going 
in  and  out  among  the  royal  palaces.  First,  an  N. 
C,  and  directly  behind  him  the  officer  of  the  day, 
wearing  the  sword  which  we  seldom  see  now,  ^\dth 
three  privates  behind  him,  the  last  one  carrying  the 
lantern  of  Diogenes.  All  of  them  going  through  a 
formula  established  by  that  faint,  far  arbiter  of  Eng- 
lish fashion — Precedent. 

There  was  still  traffic  in  the  Mall.  Huge  army 
trucks  were  taking  our  route,  winding  behind  Buck- 
ingham Palace  and  halting  before  a  great,  thoroughly 
lighted  soldiers'  hostel  that  was,  and  will  be  again,  a 

133 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

splendid  hotel  when  the  overseas  men  have  all  gone 
back.  These  trucks  seem  to  have  no  homes  of  their 
own.  I  always  found  lines  of  them  standing  through 
the  wet  nights,  the  proud  possessors  enjoying  the 
cheer  inside,  as  once  long  lines  of  limousines  waited 
before  the  doors  for  their  masters.  Only,  in  this  day, 
it  is  the  chauffeurs  who  are  inside. 

Beyond,  in  Eaton  Square,  rows  of  low,  beautifully 
built  huts  fill  the  space  that  was  once  greensward,  and 
clearly  worded  directions  for  the  benefit  of  the  soldiers 
strange  to  the  city  are  upon  illuminated  signs  at  every 
corner.  The  homes  of  the  aristocrats  look  down  upon 
these  huts,  but  not  with  hauteur,  for  the  impression 
that  was  strongest  with  me,  even  in  my  first  early 
days  here,  was  the  easy  merging  of  the  old  landscape 
with  the  new,  as  the  aristocratic  sections  extend  their 
welcome  to  the  humbler  abodes  for  the  soldiers.  I 
believe  that  in  a  country  which  has  never  known  the 
traditions  of  feudalism  this  gathering  of  the  humble 
around  the  seats  of  thepowerf  ul  would  be  not  so 
naturally  accepted.  That  is  one  for  feudalism,  and 
occasionally  the  war  correspondent  passes  through 
who  reads  another  brief  for  it  in  the  contrasting  of  the 
care  of  the  English  officers  for  their  men  as  compared 
to  the  unintentional  indifference  of  our  own  officers 
toward  their  comrades  in  the  ranks. 

At  Sloane  Square  I  tluTist  my  head  far  out  of  the 
window,  as  I  thought  the  crowd  collected  could  not 
be  there  save  for  a  fire  or  a  fight.  But  I  had  forgotten 
the  lure  of  the  Owl  lunch-wagon.  The  little  red- 
windowed  van  was  a  white  bark  in  a  khaki  sea,  and 
I  wondered  where  all  those  boys  were  to  sleep,  if  they 
could  sleep  at  all  after  several  mugs  of  coffee.  I 
could  not  see  if  they  were  eating  doughnuts,  although 

134 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

I  tried  hard  to,  for  Mrs.  Wren  had  told  me  some- 
thing that  afternoon  very  lovely  about  the  homely 
fried  cakes,  and  although  it  will  keep  me  from  my 
Chelsea  domain  by  a  paragraph  or  two,  I  must  fly 
off  at  the  usual  uncontrolled  mental  angle  and 
repeat  it. 

Mrs.  Wren  has  a  friend  who  started  one  of  these 
Owl  wagons  at  the  beginning  of  the  war,  with  a  capital 
of  twenty  pounds.  Now  he  would  not  sell  his  business 
for  several  hundred— for  he  is  rich — like  madam.  I 
am  not  trying  to  induce  you  to  invest  your  money 
in  coffee-stalls;  the  point  is  that  his  specialty  of  late 
has  been  doughnuts,  and  her  point  is  that  there  is 
work  for  all,  if  the  Britisher  will  only  be  adaptable. 

Mrs.  Wren's  friend,  Mr.  Coffee-Stall,  told  her  that 
a  girl  came  to  him  one  day  with  a  plate  of  doughnuts, 
to  ask  if  he  would  taste  them,  but  he  had  no  chance 
to  taste  them,  for  some  colonials  seized  the  plate, 
crying,  ''Good  old  Salvation  Army!"  In  a  minute 
there  were  only  coppers  to  show  for  the  samples.  So 
Mr.  Coffee-Stall  went  to  the  girl's  house,  and  found 
there  her  father,  who  had  been  in  the  war,  and  left 
with  a  nervous  affection  of  the  legs  which  prevented 
his  going  back  to  his  old  job  of  house-painting — or 
whatever  it  was  that  took  legs.  Then  his  wife  went 
out  charring,  and  the  girl  stayed  home  with  the  father, 
who  tried  to  help  with  the  cookery.  He  worked  on 
doughnuts  day  and  night,  for  he  had  eaten  those  that 
the  Salvation  Army  distributed  at  the  front;  and  on 
the  day  he  had  perfectly  golden-browned  them,  as  he 
sat  on  a  high  stool  by  the  range,  she  took  them  over 
to  the  Owl  lunch-wagon. 

''You  know  the  rest,  in  the  books  you  have  read" — 
which  I  should  not  continue,  as  I  believe  it  runs: 

10  135 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

''how  the  British  regulars  fired — and  fled."  But,  of 
coiu'se,  mother,  father,  and  daughter  turn  out  hun- 
dreds of  doughnuts  a  day,  and  wheel  father  every 
night  to  the  movies.  All  of  which  must  be  very  satis- 
factory to  the  possible  male  reader,  as  it  proves  that 
a  man  can  cook,  if  he  will. 

As  I  had  this  little  resume  of  doughnuts,  Gladys 
reverted  to  my  mind,  and  the  home  I  was  coming  to, 
after  a  long  absence  from  any  but  borrowed  homes,  and 
I  determined  we  would  have  doughnuts  all  the  time, 
made  only  as  a  soldier's  loving  daughter  would -make 
them.  Then  we  rather  suddenly  turned  into  my  little 
square,  to  stop  at  my  little  house,  and  between  the 
drawn  curtains  I  could  catch  the  flicker  of  my  fire, 
and  once  beyond  the  door  I  could  smell  the  oil  stove 
"welcoming  me  in";  but  the  rooms  were  steaming 
warm!  Beechey  went  down  into  the  kitchen,  and  1 
heard  her  say,  ''Miaow!  Miaow!"  which  made 
me  fear  for  her  reason;  but  she  said  she  was  only 
scaring  off  the  mice.  It  was  not  a  wasted  effort,  as 
one  was  found  the  next  morning,  stark  and  cold, 
probably  having  laughed  himself  to  death.  Pretty 
soon  she  returned  with  some  cocoa,  which  was  very 
thin,  as  she  had  followed  the  directions  on  the  tin. 

And  soon  after  that — after  she  had  asked  me  how 
the  play  had  got  on,  and  did  the  audience  like  the 
leading  man — the  gas  stove  was  out,  the  grate  fire 
softly  glowing,  and  I  lay  on  an  excellent  bed,  looking 
at  the  bare  branches  of  the  great  trees,  which  a  pale, 
wet  moon  was  permitting  me  to  enjoy.  Cora's  moon, 
making  her  unhappy,  no  doubt,  but  illuminating  nat- 
ure for  me,  which  is  a  very  decent  use  for  this  torch 
of  love,  when  one  is  "going  on  fifty." 


Chapter  X 

BOOM!  And  yet  not  a  boom.  Bang!  And  yet 
not  a  bang.  Iron  upon  iron,  but  with  no 
metallic  reverberation,  the  echo  only  in  my 
frightened  brain  as  I  sat  up  in  bed  in  the  gray  of  the 
morning  light  and  tried  to  define  the  assault.  Again 
it  came,  and  I  knew  it  to  be  a  knock  on  the  knocker 
of  the  front  door.  I  don't  know  how  the  door  felt 
about  it,  but  it  had  the  effect  upon  me  of  a  blow; 
to  define  the  two,  a  knock-out  blow  directed  at  me. 

I  appreciate  now  that  I  should  have  received  the 
knock-out  blow  as  would  a  pugilist.  I  should  have 
fallen  straight  back  upon  my  pillows  and  lapsed  into 
unconsciousness.  In  that  fashion  I  would  have  dem- 
onstrated that  I  was  in  no  way  concerned  with 
the  front  door  and  the  knocks  thereon.  That  the 
front  door  led  to  the  maisonnette,  but  was  not  the 
maisonnette,  and  that  it  was  the  duty  of  the  land- 
lady, snug  and  warm  with  her  Pomeranians  in  the 
room  directly  above  me.  either  to  answer  knocks  or 
to  discourage  them. 

But  I  can  never  resist  an  appeal  at  a  front  door.  I 
suppose  I  was  a  lackey  in  some  earlier  period,  for  I 
hastily  threw  a  dressing-gown  about  me,  went  to  the 
door  and  received  from  the  postman  a  parcel  of  ob- 
viously dying  flowers  addressed  to  the  lady  sleeping 
above.  I  put  the  parcel  down  on  the  antique  wedding- 
chest  in  the  hall,  and  flew  l^ack,  dressing-gown  and 

lo7 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

all,  to  my  cooling  bed.  I  shut  my  eyes,  I  put  a 
stocking  over  them.    ''You  are  asleep,"  I  said. 

"Blump!"  cried  a  woman's  voice  down  the  street. 
''Bhmip!"  It  came  nearer.  There  was  a  sudden 
barking.  At  first  it  seemed  to  be  the  Pomeranians, 
but,  on  analysis,  it  was  one  large  bark  rather  than 
two  small  ones.  It  was  the  dog  next  door  protesting 
at  "Blump."  Soon  the  noise  came  to  om'  door,  ac- 
companied by  a  knock,  a  different  kind  of  a  knock, 
but  just  as  imperative  as  the  postman's,  and,  throwing 
a  fur  coat  over  the  dressing-gown,  I  again  answered 
it.  There  was  no  one  at  the  door.  Nothing  but  one 
quart  of  milk  looking  up  at  me  boldly  (whoever  said, 
''as  mild  as  milk"?),  with  the  milk-gu-1  going  her 
wretched  way  down  the  street.  Once  we  had  milk- 
maids in  the  country  and  milkmen  in  the  city.  Now 
men  look  after  the  cows  and  girls  peddle  their  com- 
modity; but  no  matter  the  sex,  the  London  street- 
cry  of  "Blump"  continues,  horridly  corrupted  from 
"Milk  below,"  to  add  to  the  horrors  of  rising.  Do 
you  remember  in  the  dead  and  gone  days  Trilby  and 
her  "Milk  below,"  in  the  actress's  best  diction? 
What  if  Trilby  had  made  her  entrance  on  the  stage 
with  "Blump!"  like  a  trained  bullfrog!  The  play 
would  have  been  a  failure — as  life  at  the  maisonnette 
was  going  to  be?    I  would  not  admit  this. 

The  milk  joined  the  dead  flowers  on  the  chest,  and 
the  fur  coat,  the  dressing-gown  and  myself  retired.  We 
filled  up  the  bed.  "You  are  asleep,"  I  again  told  myself. 

"Bing!"  at  the  door,  followed  by  tat-tat,  then  a 
scuffling  sound,  as  though  rats  were  endeavoring  to 
get  through  the  keyhole.  I  put  the  eider-down  quilt 
over  the  fur  coat  over  the  dressing-gown,  and  went 
to  the  door.   The  paper-boy  had  gone  on  to  exasperate 

13§ 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

further  the  dog  in  the  next  house,  and  through  the 
letter-drop  had  been  shot  the  morning  papers.  All 
of  us,  including  the  papers,  crowded  back  into  my 
narrow  bed.  I  put  the  stocking  over  my  eyes.  '^A 
maisonnette  is  that  portion  of  a  house  rented  by  the 
householder  in  order  that  the  tenant  may  answer 
the  door,"  I  chanted  in  the  fond  hope  of  putting  my- 
self to  sleep  with  the  idea. 

The  rage  that  this  thought  developed  warmed  only 
my  head.  My  feet  were  freezing,  I  was  too  cold  to 
get  up  and  light  the  oil  stove,  and  the  only  picture 
which  soothed  my  mind,  and  finally  sent  me  off  in  a 
doze,  was  that  of  Gladys.  Gladys,  who  would  soon 
be  deftly  laying  the  fire  for  me.  How  Gladys  was  to 
get  in  I  did  not  know  or  care.  I  certainly  was  not 
going  to  let  her  in.  That  she  did  force  an  entrance, 
I  learned  later,  was  due  to  her  arrival  at  the  same 
time  with  the  landlady's  maid.  But  from  that  moment 
on  until  I  first  beheld  Gladys  kneeling  at  the  grate 
my  dozing  dreams  were  perforated  by  staccato  whis- 
pers in  the  hall  and  thousands  of  feet  going  up  and 
down  the  basement  steps. 

After  the  postman,  the  milk-girl,  and  the  paper- 
boy made  their  first  senseless  attacks  upon  the  door, 
the  knocker  was  not  in  evidence  until  the  usual  busi- 
ness of  life  began.  Fortunately,  business  in  London 
is  not  actually  humming  and  not  largely  knocking 
until  ten  o'  the  morning. 

I  removed  the  stocking  from  my  eyes,  when  I  was 

sure  Gladys  was  kneeling  at  the  hearth,  and  elevated 

myself  upon  the  pillows  to  greet  her.    I  saw  a  young 

head,  wearing  an  evening  coiffure,  bound  low  on  the 

brow  by  a  black  velvet  ribbon.     She  was  singing 

''Over  There." 

139 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

"Is  that  you,  Gladys?"  I  asked  by  way  of  greeting, 
just  hoping  it  might  not  be. 

''Huh?" 

"Is  this  Gladys?"   Faintly  from  me. 

"Ung-huh!" 

"Very  well,  then,"  I  returned,  firmly,  sticking  to 
my  original  formula.    "Good  morning,  Gladys." 

She  settled  back  on  her  haunches  and  looked  at 
me,  then  she  candidly  gave  to  an  icy  world  evidence 
of  her  first  limitation:  "I  never  could  build  a  fire," 
confessed  Gladys. 

Myself  and  wrappings  retired  under  the  coverlet 
for  a  space,  again  to  emerge,  and  with  a  mighty  sum- 
moning of  early  Indiana  days  I  arose  and  showed 
my  handmaiden  how  to  lay  the  sticks.  I  also  pro- 
duced the  fire-lighter,  soaked  it  in  the  paraffin,  and 
applied  a  match.  The  charm  worked.  Gladys  was 
yawning  at  it. 

"You  need  not  watch  it,"  I  said,  for  I  was  proud 
of  the  thing.    "You  can  bring  up  the  breakfast." 

"Huh?" 

"Where  did  you  come  from?" 

"From  Canada,  and  I  wisht  to  God  I  was  back 
there." 

"So  do  I."   I  was  very  fervent. 

She  thought  I  liked  Canada,  and  grew  more  sociable. 
"I  am  going  to  a  dance,"  banging  the  coal-scuttle 
against  the  Queen  Anne  furniture. 

So  far  as  I  w^as  concerned  she  could  have  left  im- 
mediately, but  fear  of  Beechey  in  the  kitchen  held  me 
in  bounds.    "Get  the  breakfast  first." 

"All  rightee."    She  made  her  exit. 

After  a  while  the  coffee  came  up,  Beechey  just 
behind  it,  beaming  at  me.     "She's  splendid,"  whis- 

140 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

pered  Beechey.  Then  I  appreciated  what  I  should 
have  known  before:  that  my  friend  will  never  see 
straight,  and  that  she  will  never  suffer  greatly  from 
the  annoyances  of  life  because  of  this.  That  quality 
is  the  real  'treasure  of  the  humble."  If  a  thing  is 
hers  it  is  all  right.  It  is  all  right  because  it  is  hers, 
and  Gladys  was  hers. 

We  had  a  few  days  of  horrible  cooking  and  worse 
service  before  I  returned  to  the  registry  to  report 
on  the  lemon-grove  for  which  I  had  paid  a  half-crown 
and  a  twenty-shilling  fee  besides.  This  was  done  by 
stealth,  for  Beechey  implored  me  not  to  let  the  girl 
go  until  we  were  sure  of  some  one  to  take  her  place. 
At  least  she  could  carry  the  coal,  sweep  and  dust, 
after  a  fashion,  and  do  up  the  dishes  at  night  before 
going  out  to  her  evening  dance.  That  is,  she  would 
do  them  up  if  Beechey  kept  her  eye  on  her — I  having 
departed  to  the  theater — but  she  never  went  through 
a  motion  in  the  kitchen  that  could  be  avoided,  al- 
though I  suppose  if  a  pedometer  were  strapped  to  her 
body  one  would  learn  that  at  least  five  miles  of  lost 
motions  in  jazz  steps  were  recorded  every  night. 

Yet  I  do  not  regret  the  experience  with  this  problem 
in  economics  which  Great  Britain  has  for  the  moment 
to  deal  with.  For  the  first  two  years  of  the  war  the 
fighting  colonials  were  allowed  to  bring  their  families 
over.  So  the  father  of  Gladys,  a  man  nearing  fifty, 
and  probably  of  not  much  use  as  a  warrior,  came 
across,  and  with  him,  or  after  him  (in  hot  pursuit, 
I  imagine) ,  came  the  useless  mother  and  six  children. 
Tlu-ee  of  the  children  were  so  young  they  had  to  go 
to  school;  of  the  other  three  one  went  into  the  Land 
Army,  and  two  into  ser^dce,  or  such  service  as  they 
could  secm-e,  for  they  had  never  been  taught  any- 

141 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

thing  remotely  relating  to  usefulness  of  any  4:ind. 
I  could  not  imagine  from  what  stratum  of  life  they 
came,  until  my  landlady  told  me  that  Gladys  told 
her  she  also  was  an  actress.  Then  I  knew  that  she 
belonged  to  that  mean  type  who  hang  about  the 
theaters  in  America  in  the  capacity  of  supers.  I  have 
never  kno"vni  one  who  had  an  ounce  of  real  worth  in 
her  make-up. 

That  she  and  her  sister  ever  went  into  service  at  all 
was  because  they  were  starved  into  it.  The  glorious 
color  which  had  so  impressed  Beechey  naturally  would 
impress  her,  for  it  was  paint.  When  once  besought  to 
rub  it  off,  she  did  so— for  the  moment — and  presented 
to  us  a  hollow-eyed,  gray-faced  girl  who,  as  she  argued, 
would  never  get  a  job,  much  less  hold  it.  She  knew 
she  was  rotten — that  was  one  of  her  charms — but  her 
indifference  to  adopting  methods  that  might  make  her 
of  value  rendered  this  charm  evanescent. 

While  she  was  exceptionally  inadequate,  she  is  one 
of  the  thousands  of  girls  of  the  same  estate  in  America. 
They  are  not  brought  up  with  the  idea  of  going  into 
service,  therefore  they  learn  nothing  of  housekeeping, 
and  the  net  they  prepare  for  the  ensnaring  of  a  hus- 
band is  seldom  stronger  than  a  hair-net  decorated 
with  ribbon.  It  was  with  a  deep,  burning  shame  that 
I,  who  had  come  away  to  escape  Cora's  tales  of  love, 
should  be  dangling  possibilities  of  a  successful  catch 
before  the  girl  if  she  would  learn  from  Beechey  some- 
thing of  cookery.  To  be  sure,  most  of  the  dishes 
Beechey  knew  she  prepared  in  a  chafing-dish,  but 
they  could  just  as  palatably  and  much  more  easily 
have  been  done  on  a  range.  ''I  ain't  a-goin'  to  cook 
forever,"  was  our  maid's  hopeless  reply.     And  while 

I  might  have  responded  that  she  was  not  a-goin'  to 

H3 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

cook  for  us  as  soon  as  we  could  better  our  condition, 
I  did  not  presume  to  be  saucy  until  the  dream  became 
a  business. 

This  looking  forward  to  marriage  and  an  immediate 
hired  girl  of  her  own  is  not  the  evil  of  England,  but 
that  of  my  country,  where  we  are  all  ladies,  or  expect 
to  be — therefore  never  cook.  And  it  has  little  to  do 
with  this  story  beyond,  as  I  have  said,  that  there  are 
hundreds  of  just  such  girls  now  in  England,  eating 
food  and  disseminating  their  "just-as-good-as-you- 
and-a-little-bit-better "  notions  without  any  evidence 
that  they  are  good  for  anything  beyond  a  good  time. 
These  girls  now  want  to  go  back;  they  are  cold  and 
underfed.  As  Gladys  herself  said,  "I'll  cut  my  throat 
if  I  gotta  stick  it,"  but' the  steamer  passage  is  now  too 
high,  and  the  British  govermnent  does  not  appreciate 
that  dipping  into  their  treasury  and  sending  them 
home  might  bring  a  greater  return  to  the  nation  than 
the  monetary  expenditure  would  mean  a  loss. 

We  kept  Gladys  on  from  day  to  day  for  several 
reasons.  One  was  that  we  couldn't  do  better,  another 
that  her  father  was  a  soldier,  another  that  Beechey's 
life  was  one  continual  triumph  of  hope  over  experi- 
ence, and  the  last  that  Gladys  had  turned  her  bed- 
room into  a  bower  of  beauty  with  a  sad  little  view  to 
remaining  permanently. 

She  undoubtedly  liked  her  place,  and  we  thought 
at  times  she  might  make  an  effort  to  earn  the  money 
I  was  expending  upon  her.  But  her  efforts  were  ever 
limited  to  personal  adornment,  at  its  best  at  a  dance, 
and  sadly  out  of  place  in  a  kitchen.  She  did  the  entire 
embellishing  of  her  own  room.  The  piece  of  carpet 
to  stand  upon  was  never  brought  down  from  the  land- 
lady's stores,  and  no  bit  of  cracked  mirror  was  ever 

143 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

supplied.  I  myself  brought  home  a  dressing-room 
mirror  and  took  a  useless  rug  from  my  bedroom  to 
place  at  her  wash-stand.  But  the  landlady,  who, 
if  she  had  not  been  a  lady,  I  would  say  snooped, 
brought  it  up-stairs  again.  And  my  curiosity  was  so 
great  to  see  when  she  would  really  look  after  a  ser- 
vant's comfort  that  I  made  no  further  effort  toward 
exacting  it  from  her. 

Yet,  snooping  myself  one  day,  I  found  the  room 
hung  with  pennants  on  which  were  lettered  the  names 
of  Canadian  towns  Gladys  might  have  passed  through 
en  auto,  or  might  (mighter,  in  fact)  have  bought  in 
a  Toronto  five-and-ten-cent  store.  There  were  bits 
of  cretonne  cushioning,  picture  post-cards  of  lovers, 
artificial  flowers  and  cracked  mugs,  and  a  shell  from 
Catalina  Island.  It  made  me  sigh  to  step  from  that 
room,  in  which  she  took  so  much  pride,  into  the  filthy 
kitchen  which  also  belonged  to  her.  The  kitchen  had 
pretty  blue-check  curtains  at  the  window.  It  had  a 
high  mantel-shelf,  with  old  copper  jars  on  it  which 
would  have  shone  with  beauty  if  polished.  The  long 
dresser  of  dishes  was  attractive,  and  the  whole  would 
have  presented  a  pleasant  room  to  learn  to  be  a  good 
wife  in  if  it  had  been  looked  upon  as  anything  but  a 
prison  cell. 

One  of  our  guests  at  one  of  Beechey's  luncheons 

commented  with  aptness  upon  this  discrimination  of 

Gladys  between  beauty  that  had  to  do  with  her  and 

that  which  pertained  to  hated  service.    Beechey  burst 

into  luncheons  as  soon  as  my  trunks  were  unpacked 

and  the  sparse  linen  purchased.    She  sweetly  wished 

to  share  her  friends  with  me,  and  she  had  every  reason 

to  be  proud  of  them.    It  is  one  of  the  charming  traits 

of  the  EngUsh  that,  no  matter  how  poor  you  are,  if 

144 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

tKey  like  you  they  will  come  any  distance,  climb  any 
number  of  stairs  to  see  you,  and  they  will  invite  you 
to  their  houses,  no  matter  how  shabby  you  are,  to 
meet  their  very  best-dressed  acquaintances.  If  they 
smiled  at  Beechey  they  smiled  indulgently,  and  never 
seemed  to  show  the  social  exhaustion  I  felt  at  the 
close  of  a  luncheon  which  was  to  have  been  served 
at  one  and  came  staggering  up  on  a  tray  at  two. 

Naturally,  I  would  be  the  more  exhausted,  as  it 
w^as  my  maisormette,  and  I  had  to  struggle  with  the 
added  responsibility  of  making  conversation  with 
strangers  (while  Beechey  directed  below-stairs)  and 
tr^dng  to  remember  the  hyphenated  names.  It  was 
of  no  assistance  to  me  that  I  knew  their  husbands' 
names.  I  would  have  to  know  their  father's  name 
as  well,  or  their  mother's  name,  or  some  family  name 
that  they  sought  to  keep  green  by  placing  it  just  before 
the  last,  or  one  of  the  last,  of  their  husbands'  names. 
And  to  this  day  I  don't  know  whether  I  should  address 
them  by  the  last  name  or  the  whole  combination,  or, 
as  they  seem  to  (playfully),  drop  the  last  altogether 
and  concentrate  on  the  first  in  the  arrangement.  We 
Americans  have  one  advantage — two,  in  truth — we 
can  do  anything  wrong  and  not  be  thought  any  more 
dreadful  than  usual,  and  we  can  always  commence  a 
conversation  with  ''Say."  As  I  grow  older  I  stick 
more  and  more  firmly  to  being  an  American,  and  I 
frequently  say-ed  these  pleasant  women. 

I  remember  it  was  one  of  them  (she  knew  every- 
thing and  everybody  and  was  writing  a  book  about 
those  things  she  knew  which  could  decently  be  put 
down  in  a  book)  who,  with  an  author's  eye,  watched 
Gladys  as  she  recklessly  served  the  delayed  luncheon. 
When  it  would  seem  that  she  had  permanently  with- 

145 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

drawn  the  guest  dared  to  comment  upon  the  appear- 
ance of  our  general,  or  rather,  to  respond  to  my  own 
couj)  d'ceil  and  my  whispered,  ''Did  you  see  her  apron?" 

''Yes,  and  I  saw  her  hair,"  the  guest  repHed. 

Gladys,  although  provided  with  aprons  by  me,  had 
on  as  filthy  a  one  as  I  have  ever  met.  But  her  hair 
was  coiffed,  and  the  black-velvet  ribbon  lower  than 
ever  on  her  forehead.  Cap?  Well,  rather  not. 
Canada? 

"What  intrigues  me,"  continued  the  hyphenated 
lady  who  bore  the  name  of  her  first  and  third  hus- 
band, "is  her  vast  interest  in  her  hair  and  her  indif- 
ference to  the  apron.  She  is  wearing  it.  It  is  part 
of  her." 

"It  isn't  part  of  her,"  spoke  up  another  woman. 
"That's  just  it.  It's  part  of  Mrs.  Closser-Hale " 
(they  hyphenate  me  over  here — do  it  firmly;  protest 
is  useless),  "and  she  doesn't  take  any  interest  in  it 
at  all." 

"But  she  would  look  smarter,  I  dare  say  she  would 
be  prettier  if  her  apron  was  nicer,"  continued  another 
one  of  these  amazing  people.  Not  that  I  discouraged 
their  frankness.  I  was  grateful  for  this  impersonal 
view,  their  criticism  in  no  way  including  me.  I  felt 
no  responsibility  for  our  servant.  As  the  woman  said 
of  her  husband,  "Thanli  God  we  are  no  blood- 
relation." 

"It's  a  badge  of  servitude,  an  apron.  They  have 
that  in  their  heads,  and  if  they  can  discredit  it  they 
will  do  so.  My  maids  won't  step  to  the  corner  with 
their  caps  on  any  more." 

We  talk  of  servants  still  in  America,  but  long  ago 

they  stopped  this  in  England — and  now  they  have 

begun  again.    So,  after  all,  it  was  not  because  it  was 

146 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

low  to  talk  of  servants,  but  for  the  reason  that  it  was 
not,  really,  part  of  the  issue  of  living.  But  it  is  very- 
much  part  of  the  present  issue,  and  I  find  that  the 
great  ladies  over  here  enjoy  it  as  much  as  the  Dorcas 
Society  does  in  an  Idaho  village.  I  sat  forward,  for 
I  wished  to  get  into  the  talk  again,  if  only  as  a  member 
of  the  Dorcas  Society.  "Why  won't  they  wear  their 
caps?"  I  asked. 

''I  wanted  to  know  that,  too,  Bowen — that's  my 
parlor-maid — said  she  would  lose  her  chances." 

"Chances  for  what?" 

"Chances  to  get  married,  of  course.  Possibly  to 
the  ironmonger's  son  near  by,  or  some  one  who  is  in 
trade." 

My  brain  whirled.  "Then  this  scarcity  of  servants 
can  be  traced  back  to  mere  sex,"  I  shouted. 

"Mere  sex!"  laughed  the  lady  with  the  names  of 
two  husbands  and  who  was  writing  a  book  about  them. 

They  all  looked  at  me,  and  there  fell  one  of  those 
embarrassing  British  pauses  which  I  have  learned  are 
embarrassing  only  to  the  American.  We  fly  into 
words  to  fill  it,  saying  nothing,  while  they  are  just 
leisurely  thinking  things  over.  My  words  flew  about 
wildly,  but  they  were  not  as  senseless  as  they  appeared 
on  the  surface: 

"I  didn't  come  over  for  this!" 

Then  they  all  laughed,  because  when  in  doul)t  it 
is  safe  to  show  appreciation  of  what  Americans  sa}''. 
The  chances  are  we  are  trying  to  have  our  little  joke. 

After  they  had  left,  I,  falsely  pretending  I  was  going 
to  take  a  walk  that  I  might  look  at  the  tablets  and 
the  tombs,  which  always  delights  Beechey,  flew  up 
to  the  registry.  The  blonde  was  not  at  all  glad  to 
see  me,  as  she  had  my  money  and  no  more  servants, 

147 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

but  since  those  conditions  endured  I  thought  the 
least  she  could  do  was  to  talk  to  me. 

''Oh,  they  will  go  back  into  service,"  she  said, 
crossly.  She  was  always  cross  with  me,  after  I  had 
paid  my  fee,  but  then  she  had  many  Gladii  to  contend 
with  throughout  the  day  and  I  had  only  one.  ''But 
they  won't  as  long  as  they  can  draw  the  out-of-work 
donation." 

"Out-of-work  donation?"  I  echoed,  respectfully. 

"Yes,  madam,"  banging  desk  drawers  full  of  names 
of  cooks  who  wouldn't  cook.  "The  government  do- 
nation. Domestic  servants  went  into  munitions, 
motor-driving,  into  the  Land  Army,  into  all  sorts 
of  high-paying  positions  during  the  war.  And  with 
the  money  they  bought  gramophones  and  fur  coats 
and  lessons  in  jazzing,  and  when  the  war  suddenly 
ended,  the  government,  out  of  recognition  of  their 
services,  arranged  to  pay  these  workers  four-and- 
twenty  shillings  a  week  for  fourteen  weeks,  or  until 
they  could  find  work  at  their  old  pursuits.  The  same 
thing  held  good  for  the  men.  You  should  see  them  on 
Fridays,  drawing  their  money — silver  queues,  they 
are  called." 

"Can't  they  find  work?" 

"Most  of  them  can,  but  they  won't  look  for  it 
until  the  donation  ceases." 

"I  thought  they  went  into  war- work  for  patriotic 
reasons,"  I  said,  bluntly. 

"Did  they  in  the  States?" 

"No,"  I  admitted.  "They  took  the  job  because 
the  pay  was  higher." 

"So  they  did  over  here — don't  let  us  deceive  our- 
selves. The  ladies  of  the  upper  classes  worked  for 
patriotic  reasons,  or  for  excitement,  or  to  get  away 

148 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

from  their  homes.  But  to  thousands  of  our  women 
it  has  been  one  huge  holiday.  Gramophones  and  fur 
coats!" 

I  could  not  respond  to  her  impatience  over  the 
music-boxes  and  the  warm  wraps.  There  was  some- 
thing pathetic  to  me  in  these  first  purchases  made  by 
girls  who  lived  in  carpetless  basement  rooms,  with 
no  music  for  them  save  from  the  pianos  of  their  betters 
above,  and  never  entirely  warm  when  out  in  the  raw 
air,  until  the  war  and  its  vast  emoluments  made  fur 
coats  possible.  Many  of  them  have  no  longer  these 
treasures  in  their  possession.  In  the  north  of  England 
the  pawnshops  bear  placards  in  the  windows  that 
no  more  fur  coats  will  be  accepted,  and  gramophones 
bring  only  a  few  shillings. 

Even  as  I  now  write  they  are  returning,  sour-faced, 
to  do  domestic  service.  Some  depended  upon  the 
out-of-work  employment  donation  as  long  as  possible, 
making  any  excuse  to  avoid  accepting  a  position,  that 
they  might  continue  their  glorious  playing.  Some 
work  and  also  accept  the  dole  of  a  too  generous 
government  staggering  under  sickening  financial  bur- 
dens, and  these,  when  discovered,  are  fined  or  im- 
prisoned. The  taxpayer  howls  through  the  columns 
of  the  press,  and  when  one  workman  was  recorded 
as  having  driven  up  in  a  taxi — and  kept  it — while 
waiting  for  his  non-employment  benefit,  I  myself,  as 
a  prospective  sufferer  from  the  income  tax,  drafted 
a  letter. 

The  sister  of  Gladys,  who  worked  in  the  Land  Army, 
was  drawing  an  out-of-employment  donation,  and  re- 
fusing to  live  at  home  or  contribute  to  her  mother's 
support  so  long  as  the  twenty-four  shillings  weekly 
was  paid  her.    Gladys  herself  said  it  was  ''fierce  to 

149 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

take  money  one  didn't  earn,  but  that  it  was  awful 
hard  to  go  back  to  a  kitchen." 

''But  if  it's  a  nice  kitchen?" 

This  was  false  in  me,  for  I  don't  think  any  kitchen 
is  really  verj^  nice,  except  to  learn  to  be  a  good  wife 
in.  And  this  sympathizing  with  one  side  and  then 
with  the  other  is  going  to  end  in  a  very  bad  book,  with 
no  proper  deductions  drawn,  and  the  reader  left  all 
up  in  the  air — with  me — and  the  rest  of  the  world. 
Gladys  forbore  to  comment  on  kitchens:  '"Tain't 
that.  You  can't  get  in  the  right  set  if  you're  working 
private.  When  you're  in  a  factory  you  go  in  a  good 
set.  An  N.  C.  O.,  even  a  private,  won't  look  at  a  hned 
girl  if  he  can  get  somebody  working — say,  in  a  candy- 
factory.  I  was  in  a  chocolate-factory  onct,  and  was 
in  a  dandy  crowd." 

''Why  didn't  you  stay  in  the  factory?"  I  suddenly 
prodded. 

She  evaded  the  question.  Of  course  she  had  lost 
her  job — incapable,  as  ever.  So  I  continued:  "Wliat 
difference  does  it  make  whether  you're  in  a  candy- 
shop  or  a  kitchen?    You're  the  same  girl." 

Gladj^s  was  standing  by  the  table,  eating  the  crumbs 
on  the  cloth  in  lieu  of  brushing  them  up.  "You're  the 
same  girl  all  right,  but  we  'ain't  got  no  standing. 
Kitchen-work  's  work  in  a  kitchen,  and  a  factory 
job  is  a  business." 

She  went  out,  catching  her  apron  on  the  door- 
knob, uttering  a  "Damn!"  and  dropping  my  minute 
ration  of  butter  on  the  floor.  But  I  didn't  care.  She 
had  hit  it.  Any  work  on  top  of  earth  is  looked  upon 
as  a  business  except  domestic  service,  and  until  that 
time  comes  when  it  will  be  a  business,  women  of  to- 
day, tortured  by  the  wave  of  feminine  unrest  that  has 

150 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

come  sweeping  over  us,  will  avoid  it.  If  we  could 
make  the  world  over,  and  sponge  from  the  brain  all 
meaning  of  the  word  ''service"  save  its  most  beautiful 
significance,  the  intelligent  girl  who  has  a  special 
aptitude  for  housework  (and  I  still  think  this 
type  predominant)  will  continue  to  strive  for  a 
place  in  some  black  factory  by  day  to  earn  a 
blacker  hole  to  sleep  in  by  night.  And  she  is 
unhappily  right,  for  this  poor  striving  is  but  her 
way  of  maintaining  her  self-respect.  She  will  no 
longer  be  a  serf. 

Good  comes  out  of  evil.  This  alarming  refusal  to 
return  to  domestic  service  now  that  the  necessary 
curtailment  of  the  personnel  of  English  houses,  great 
and  small,  has  lessened,  has  caused  the  sober-minded 
men  and  women  of  Great  Britain  to  treat  with  the 
domestic  problem  as  thoughtfully  as  with  the  other 
huge  labor  conditions  which  have  ever  confronted 
them.  Scared  into  it,  as  I  have  said,  but,  at  any  rate, 
really  endeavoring  to  recognize  menial  work  as  a 
business.  But  the  point  is  they  do  not  call  it  a  busi- 
ness.   They  still  call  it  domestic  service. 

Some  committees  have  made  no  wiser  concessions 
than  the  adoption  of  a  handle  to  the  names  of  their 
employees.  Others,  however,  are  arranging  with  them 
hours  for  work  as  definite  as  those  in  a  factory. 
Hostels  are  being  established  that  they  may  not 
''live  in"  if  they  do  not  want  to;  unifonns  are  taking 
the  place  of  caps  and  aprons.  Maids  are  sent  in  by 
the  hour,  at  tenpence — twenty  cents — an  hour,  and 
at  Highgate  a  club  has  been  opened  which  all  of  Eng- 
land is  watching.  I  know  the  woman  who  started  this 
club,  and  how  she  has  planned  it  for  years.  It  is 
amusing  that  she  has  accomplished  at  Highgate  what 
11  1^1 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

I  suggested  at  Kennebunkport,  Maine,  and  was 
sneered  at  for  my  efforts. 

But  all  women  of  all  countries  must  have  discovered 
by  now  that,  in  the  new  order  of  things  in  this  world, 
they  must  put  others  at  ease  if  they  mean  to  be  at 
ease  themselves.  For  I  believe  this  rebellion  would 
have  come  among  domestics  even  had  there  been  no 
world-embroilment,  but  the  war  brought  to  them — 
as  well  as  deep  grief  and  quickly  forgotten  losses — 
a  period  when  they  were  just  as  good  as  anybody, 
and  they  are  loath  to  return  to  a  condition  undeniably 
held  in  poor  esteem  by  their  fellow-creatures. 

And  now  I  am  covered  with  confusion,  for  the 
writing  down  of  "fellow-creatures"  is  a  confession 
that  this  whole  servant  question  is  entirely  in  the 
hands  of  the  masculine  sex;  it  could  be  disposed  of 
by  the  sturdy  insistence  of  a  man  when  he  marries 
his  wife  that  she  must  have  domestic  training  as  well 
as  a  pink  bow  in  her  hair.  There  are  schools  now  for 
domestic  science  where  a  girl  could  learn  her  trade — 
her  business— as  she  could  never  acquire  it  in  the  mean 
home  of  her  father.  Mrs.  Whitelaw  Reid  has  estab- 
lished one  of  these  schools  over  here,  and  has  found 
that  the  girl  of  the  East  End  is  just  as  willing  to  be 
clean  and  do  things  beautifully  in  a  kitchen  as  to  be 
a  slattern  and  do  them  grubbily.  But  her  chances 
for  marriage  are  not  so  good  to  a  man  of  decent 
estate  when  she  smiles  up  from  the  kitchen  area 
(in  a  cap  worn  for  the  very  decent  reason  of  keeping 
her  hair  out  of  the  food)  as  when  she  lolls  from  her 
father's  sagging  window,  unhappy  and  unkempt,  in 
the  Mile  End  Road. 

When  there  is  a  demand  there  will  be  a  supply. 
And  if  men  preferred  a  good  housekeeper  to  a  pink 

152 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

bow,  they  would  get  it.  A  girl  would  go  into  a  kitchen 
(if  for  no  finer  reason  than  to  practise  on  somebody 
else's  eggs  with  her  new  cookery  recipes  before  she 
marries)  if  the  man  of  the  present  day  would  let 
out  a  reef  in  his  furled-up  brain  and  admit  that 
''labor,  all  labor  is  noble  and  holy."  But  he,  too,  feels 
the  ignominy  of  personal  service.  The  shadow  of 
serfdom,  faint  though  it  may  be,  still  renders  the 
employee  within  a  household  a  baser  creature  than 
the  employee  of  a  factory. 

Just  at  present,  as  I  have  outlined  before,  we  are 
in  the  worst  stage  of  all,  for  the  English  servant  will 
not  work  for  those  who  aren't  kind  to  her,  yet  despises 
those  whose  sway  is  gentle.  I  wish  a  woman's  brain 
could  be  entirely  taken  apart,  hke  a  watch,  thoroughly 
cleaned,  and  the  good  little  jewels  of  the  works  set 
to  gleaming  again.  I  wish  I  were  wise  enough  to  do 
it.  But  there!  I  can't  clean  a  watch,  much  less  a  girl's 
brain. 

So  far  I  have  terribly  muddled  it.  My  landlady 
is  out  a  very  good  maid  for  the  present  of  four  shillings 
from  me.  In  my  quaint  desire  to  be  loved,  which  I 
find  expressed  in  the  last  chapter  of  my  diary,  1  gave 
her  this  money,  and  as  it  was  just  one  dollar  more 
than  she  had  calculated  on  to  eke  out  her  scanty 
existence  she  decided  to  dispose  of  the  vexatious  sum 
as  soon  as  the  nearest  pub  was  open.  It  opened  at 
twelve,  and  she  fled — but  to  return.  To  return  and 
create  a  mild  scene  by  standing  in  front  of  my  window 
and  railing  at  me  for  "swanking  about  with  my 
money." 

It  was  very  "tiresome"  to  my  landlady,  who  had 
found  her  a  good  servant  up  to  the  dollar  spree,  and 
it  was  very  embarrassing  t(:>  me,  as  I  feared  the  girl 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

had  lost  her  place.  If  a  maid  drinks  in  America,  out 
she  goes,  but  my  landlady  had  no  thought  of  dis- 
missing her.  The  patient  householder  is  accustomed 
to  half-pint  sprees,  if  not  to  two-quart  ones,  and  we 
saw  the  maid  no  more  because  some  other  anxious 
housewife  snatched  her  up,  profiting,  no  doubt,  by 
the  enervation  following  the  party. 

"It  doesn't  do  to  be  too  nice  to  them,"  said  my 
landlady,  which  showed  a  great  deal  of  restraint. 
''Now,  about  this  mousetrap — "  But  I  continued 
silently  mutinous  as  she  explained  the  vagaries  of  the 
mousetrap.  It  is  the  last  clutch  of  the  feudal  system 
— this  control  by  fear.  The  servant  still  vaguely 
recognizes  it,  even  as  she  resents  the  system — it  keeps 
what  poor  wits  she  exercises  under  the  ordered  sway 
which  we  all  need  to  preserve  our  balance.  But  it 
clamps  down  the  best  of  her,  for  the  overlord  of  old 
was  intent  only  upon  the  discipline  that  brought  im- 
mediate results  to  him.  Planning  a  future  for  his 
vassals  was  never  one  of  the  aims  of  the  baron. 

As  I  say,  to  all  intent  I  was  confining  my  attention 
to  the  mousetrap  furnished  by  the  landlady.  With 
the  coming  of  Gladys  we  had  grown  even  more  popular 
with  rodents  in  our  neighborhood.  Word  went  round 
among  the  mice  that  two  Americans  and  a  Canadian 
were  living  up  the  street,  and  that  what  the  Americans 
didn't  eat  above-stairs  the  Canadian  left  on  the  floor 
below-stairs  as  she  hurried  out  to  her  evening  jazz. 
Properly  speaking,  it  was  not  a  mousetrap.  But  the 
landlady,  with  that  curious  attention  to  pennies  and 
indifference  to  pounds  which  marks  the  aristocrat  who 
goes  into  business,  had  it  stored  among  her  effects 
and  thought  it  might  be  used.  It  was  really  a  rat- 
trap,  a  very  large  one,  and  if  a  mouse  once  moved  intq 

1^4 


AN  AMERICANOS  LONDON 

it,  the  little  creature  could  roam  very  comfortably 
through  its  long  galleries  for  the  rest  of  its  life,  and 
make  itself  a  decent  home.  If  bored,  Mr.  Mouse  need 
nob  trouble  to  go  out  the  main  entrance,  but  could 
exit  between  the  wires,  which  were  wide  enough  to 
accoimxiodate  his  little  body  at  any  point. 

Yet  it  was  brought  to  us  to  catch  mice  in,  and  we 
were  besought,  if  we  did  catch  one,  not  to  kill  the 
little  thing,  but  to  carry  the  trap  and  all  over  to 
Battersea  Park,  a  distance  of  about  a  mile,  and  let 
it  out.  She  had  tried  it  herself  with  a  string  bag, 
but,  curiously  enough,  there  was  no  mouse  upon  her 
arrival.  Yet  this  was  the  lady  who  would  not  furnish 
me  vdih  a  scrap  of  carpet  for  my  maid's  room! 

Now  who  is  to  solve  the  servant  question  over  here, 
when  no  one  has  begun  to  solve  the  mysteries  of  the 
mistress  who  engages  the  servant? 


Chapter  XI 

OTHER  engaging  things  happened  besides  the 
engaging  of  Gladys  during  the  first  weeks  of 
our  tenancy  of  the  maisonnette.  And  a  certain 
order  came  into  our  Hves  which  gave  time  for  pleas- 
anter  pursuits  than  the  eternal  quest  for  matches  or 
firewood. 

Having  successfully  grappled  with  the  heating 
question,  I  grew  ambitious  for  undisturbed  mornings. 
It  seemed  that  the  milk-girl,  the  paper-boy,  and  the 
postman  always  had  knocked  on  the  door  on  their 
early-morning  rounds,  and,  as  far  as  I  can  make  out, 
the  tenant  of  the  ground  floor  always  answered  the 
knocks.  But  I  saw  no  reason  why  they  always  should 
because  they  always  had,  and  before  retiring  each 
night  I  hung  upon  the  knocker  a  neatly  lettered  sign 
with  ''Please"  (we  always  say  "please"  over  here)  ''to 
ring  only  the  area-bell  until  nine  in  the  morning." 

It  was  an  amazing  procedure,  and  if  I  chanced  to 
waken  early,  anyway,  I  could  hear  the  cessation  of 
fciotsteps  outside  as  the  possessors  of  the  feet  stopped 
to  read  the  card.  But  the  scheme  worked,  although 
other  knockers  were  more  bitterly  attacked  to  make 
up  for  this  restraint,  and  the  dog  next  door  barked  his 
usual  protest. 

The  dog  must  have  slept  in  the  lower  hall,  with  the 
wall  between  us,  and  I  could  not  bring  myself  to  com- 

156 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

plain  of  him  for  fear  he  would  be  con.signed  to  the 
basement,  where  he  would  get  rheumatism,  along  with 
the  maid.  He  didn't  have  a  very  good  time  of  it, 
anyway,  that  doggie.  It  got  about,  the  way  things 
do  in  this  little  village  of  London,  that  he  was  not  fed 
as  much  as  he  should  be,  since  dog-biscuits  had  gone 
up,  and  my  landlady  was  often  seen  stretching  her 
long,  fine  arm  over  the  garden  wall  to  drop  him  satis- 
f^dng  bones. 

My  landlady  co-operated  with  me  in  my  efforts 
toward  a  peaceful  morning.  She  was  pleasantly 
anxious  that  a  stranger  to  her  country  should  be  com- 
fortable, even  though  the  householder  had  to  suffer 
placards  on  the  door,  and  I  think  she  would  have  pre- 
ferred amending  the  notice  to,  ''Please,  an  American 
begs  you  to  ring  only  the  area-bell.  ..."  so  as  to  have 
explained  the  unusualness  of  the  act. 

She  often  came  in  the  morning,  after  her  setting-up 
exercises  at  the  telephone  consisting  of  vocal  calis- 
thenics and  a  strain  on  the  nerves  which  could  be 
translated  as  an  endurance  test.  The  telephone  was 
in  the  hall  outside  my  door,  and  one  would  have 
thought  it  was  a  real  gymnasium,  with  the  landlady 
as  instructor  on  the  high  rings,  to  judge  by  her 
pinched  Oxford  tones  imploring  some  one  to  hold  on. 

Jt  was  impossible  not  to  hear  these  piercing  one- 
sided conversations,  although  when  her  companion 
at  the  other  end  of  the  'phone  was  evidently  growing 
excited,  she  would  remind  her  to  speak  low,  as  Mrs. 
Hale  was  sleeping.  Yet  in  this  way  I  learned  many 
things  of  her  goodness,  of  which  she  never  spoke,  for 
the  English  do  not  talk  of  their  fine  deeds.  One  was 
that  she  had  been  enormously  active  in  gratuitous 
hospital  work.   And  I  liked  her  all  the  better  for  taking 

157 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

on  the  uni'omantic  job — she  had  been  the  barber. 
She  had  a  real  concern  and  love  for  the  Tommies — 
yet  they  must  remain  Tommies.  She  was  reporting  to 
some  friend,  one  morning,  of  another  friend  who  had 
decided  to  take  as  'Spaying  guests"  a  few  officers  still 
weak  from  wounds.  '^Of  course,  only  nice  men," 
she  told  her  over  the  'phone;  "none  of  those  counter- 
jumpers  who  went  out  as  officers."  It  makes  one 
wonder  as  to  the  ultimate  fate  of  those  little  fellows 
who,  in  the  exigencies  of  war,  and  their  own  ability, 
were  made  into  what  they  call  over  here  "a  temporary 
gentleman."  Although  the  Labor  party  is  in,  the  Con- 
servative out,  the  last  crust  to  be  broken  through  will 
be  that  of  caste  in  England,  I  imagine.  But  what  a 
seething  mass  of  flame  will  burst  when  this  artificial 
covering  is  finally  pierced! 

In  our  morning  talks  following  the  telephonic  period 
my  landlady  always  left  the  hall  door  wide  open,  and 
as  the  one  leading  into  the  garden  was  rarely  closed, 
except  when  I  was  leaning  against  it,  my  elaborately 
heated  rooms  were  as  icy  as  charity  before  our  con- 
versation was  concluded.  But  on  one  especial  morn- 
ing there  was  so  much  excitement  in  the  hall  over  the 
knocker  subject  that  I  opened  the  door  myself,  and 
kept  at  bay  the  cold  by  a  participation  in  a  heated 
discussion  over  what  was  to  be  done  and  how  to  do  it. 
Although  our  back  door  is  never  locked,  and  thieves 
can,  and  have  passed  over  garden  walls  into  whole 
rows  of  houses,  our  front  door  is  never  left  on  the 
latch  for  a  minute.  Nor  are  keys  delivered  over  to 
strange  servants  without  a  suspicion  that  duplicates 
will  be  made  and  the  house  robbed — decently,  by  the 
front  door,  as  it  should  be  in  Chelsea. 

I  don't  know  how  long  we  must  know  a  servant 

158 


AN  AMERIC.\N'S  LONDON 

before  she  can  be  trusted  with  a  key,  but  the  new 
maid  who  had  taken  the  place  of  the  bewildered  creat- 
ui'e  I  drove  to  drink  by  the  gift  of  four  shillings  had 
not  yet  arrived  at  that  stage  of  trust,  and,  in  order 
to  avoid  knocking,  our  householder  admitted  making 
an  arrangement  with  her  which  got  no  farther  than 
the  first  attempt.  She  would  not  give  the  maid  a  key, 
nor  would  she  leave  the  door  on  the  latch,  nor  would 
she  have  me  aroused,  so  she  placed  the  key  in  a  piece 
of  white  paper  in  the  boot-scraper,  and  hung  a  card 
above  my  card.  Hers  read,  "Mary,  find  the  key  and 
come  in."  Strange  as  it  may  seem,  this  game  of  hide- 
and-seek  had  appealed  to  earlier  birds  than  Mary, 
and  when  the  rightful  participator  in  the  morning's 
fun  arrived,  the  worm  had  been  found  and  carried 
off.  The  landlady  agreed  with  me  that  it  was  very 
unsportsman-like  if  the  thief's  name  was  not  Mary, 
but  she  failed  to  get  the  unalloyed  joy  out  of  the 
situation  which  was  mine. 

''The  lock  must  be  changed — we'll  be  robbed," 
she  ejaculated. 

"We'll  be  robbed,  anyway,  if  we  go  on  leaving  the 
back  door  open  all  night,"  I  argued.  "Personally, 
I'd  rather  they  would  come  through  the  hall  than  the 
bath-room.    It's  more  respectable." 

"It's  not  respectable  for  them  to  come  through 
either  door,"  she  commented,  shortly. 

She  had  me  there.  Burglars  are  not  classed  among 
the  eligible,  and  I  endeavored  to  soothe  her.  If  it 
was  a  burglar  who  found  the  key,  he  would  have  come 
in  immediately,  for  one  of  his  trade  knew  that  locks 
could  be  changed  in  a  day. 

"In  a  day?"  she  echoed.     "It  will  take  a  week." 

And  so  it  did.     With  the  ancient  wedding-chest 

159 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

pushed  across  the  front  door  by  the  last  one  in,  which 
was  Gladys,  until  a  British  workman  had  been  found 
and  demobbed  and  importuned  and  overpaid,  and 
new  keys  were  made  for  us  along  with  a  new  lock. 
That  night  Beechey  rode  down  on  11  bus  to  watch 
the  leading  man  go  through  his  big  scene  and  to  ride 
home  with  me  in  the  growler.  Her  mousey  eyes  were 
dancing. 

"Do  you  know  what  she  wants  to  do  now?"  I 
didn't.  "She  wants  to  tie  the  key  on  a  string,  then  tie 
the  string  to  the  knocker,  and  drop  the  key  through 
the  slot  for  letters.  So  that  Mary,  and  only  Mary, 
can  pull  it  outside  from  the  inside.    Did  you  ever?" 

No,  I  never. 

If  I  thought  the  landlady  strange,  she  thought  me 
stranger,  and  yet  she  was  more  generous  than  I  at 
this  present  moment.  As  I  grew  more  and  more  fond 
of  her,  I  continued  hostile  to  her  methods,  whereas 
she,  with  less  natural  flexibility  than  my  pioneer  birth 
has  granted  me,  managed  to  accept,  even  to  applaud, 
my  innovations.  "You're  all  so  clever,"  she  once  said; 
"that's  the  reason  we're  afraid  of  you."  Which,  of 
course,  was  amazing  to  me,  as  the  Americans  are  afraid 
of  the  English,  probably  not  because  they  are  clever, 
but  for  the  consciousness  that  they  have  had  at  least 
a  thousand  more  years  than  we  have  had  for  the  ap- 
plication of  knowledge,  and  with  it  manners  and  all 
the  charming  graces  that  our  rawer  land  lacks. 

Yet,  like  the  theater-housekeeper  who  preferred  the 
newspaper  blower  to  a  fire-lighter,  she  had  no  intention 
of  adopting  these  innovations.  They  belonged  to  a 
younger  people,  and  she  must  go  on  her  prescribed  way. 

She  even  grew  in  time  to  admire  my  clothes-horse. 

The  clothes-horse  was  purchased  as  I  had  but  six 

X60 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

hooks  screwed  beneath  a  shelf  in  the  Hving-room  for 
my  entire  wardrobe.  Having  come  from  a  country 
which  is  supposed  to  have  profited  largely  by  the  war, 
I  had  more  gowns  and  many  more  coats  than  the  lady, 
in  the  villa  whom — in  the  sixth  chapter — I  endeavored 
to  coerce  into  sleeping  in  her  drawing-room.  Indeed, 
I  had  more  clothes  than  usual,  as  I  was  supplied  with 
the  cast-off  garments  of  my  friends  while  I  myself 
worked  for  the  war,  and  I  may  add  here  that  it  was 
not  a  bad  scheme. 

There  was  no  use  appealing  to  my  landlady.  She 
would  say,  "You  wouldn't  want  any  more  hooks, 
would  you?"  And  I  would  either  answer,  ''No,"  or 
snap  at  her.  The  conversation  of  the  American  is 
made  up  of  extremes.  The  expense  of  buying  house- 
hold necessities  for  a  home  that  was  supposed  to  be 
furnished  was  already  so  great  that  I  did  not  burst 
into  the  purchase  of  a  wardrobe,  although  I  visited 
many  shops  with  the  idea  of  securing  a  lowly  old- 
fashioned  hat-rack  or  hall-stand,  or  some  effect  which 
would  hold  dress-hangers. 

Of  course,  I  would  not  tell  the  clerk  what  I  wanted 
the  hat-rack  for;  he  would  not  sell  it  to  me  if  I  was 
not  going  to  use  it  for  hats.  I  had  learned  this  by 
venturing  into  an  antique-shop  with  a  view  to  pur- 
chasing a  brass  fire-screen.  It  consisted  of  a  base 
something  like  a  hat-tree  and  a  strong  crosspiece  on 
which  I  could  have  hung  any  amount  of  gowns.  I 
had  just  been  complimented  by  the  landlady  on  my 
inventiveness,  or  I  would  not  have  told  the  antiquity- 
man,  full  of  antique  thoughts,  what  I  was  going  to  do 
with  the  fire-screen.  He  said  it  would  never  answer, 
and  while  I  contended  that  it  would,  wishing  to  show 
him  with  my  coat — and  his— he  remembered  that  it 

161 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

had  been  already  sold  as  a  fire-screen — the  which  it 
was — and  bowed  me  out.  I  wanted  to  go  back  and 
ask  him  if  I  kept  it  before  the  fire,  and  used  my  clothes 
for  a  screen,  could  I  have  it.     But  I  was  afraid  of  him. 

Even  archaic  old  hat-racks  were  prohibitive  in  the 
shops;  England  has  no  pine  forest  to  draw  upon  for 
cheap  furniture,  and  not  a  stick  of  household  ware 
was  made  during  the  war.  I  don't  see  how  any  young 
couple,  provided  they  can  find  a  home,  dare  equip 
it,  for  above  all  high  prices  at  present  furniture  shows 
the  greatest  increase.  Should  they  find  a  home,  they 
must  under  no  circumstances  have  a  baby.  The 
meanest  cradle  in  the  meanest  shop  I  visited  cost 
thirty  dollars,  and  it  is  small  wonder  that  the  cockney 
is  undersized,  since  I  am  told  they  are  brought  up 
in  bureau  drawers. 

All  dealers  in  antique-shops  were  not  severe  with 
me.  One  pleasant  gentleman  sold  me  a  brass  kettle 
instead  of  the  hat-rack  for  which  I  was  searching, 
engaging  me  the  while  by  his  stories  as  a  special  con- 
stable during  the  war.  And  it  was  worth  a  brass 
kettle,  for  I  had  been  wondering  at  these  little  copper 
devices  which  middle-aged  shopkeepers  affect  on  their 
left  lapel.  Indeed  a  man  looks  but  half  clad  who 
goes  about  the  streets  of  London  without  some  kind 
of  emblem  upon  his  breast.  This  was  the  old  man  who 
suggested  screwing  hooks  in  the  back  of  my  bed,  as 
my  landlady  would  probably  not  discover  them  until 
after  my  departure.  I  told  him  he  didn't  know  my 
landlady,  and  he  laughed,  saying  I  would  be  sure  to 
find  some  American  way  of  taking  advantage  of  her, 
which  was  no  doubt  kindly  meant.  He  understood 
Americans  very  well,  he  told  me,  as  he  had  a  wife 
living  in  Seattle.     And  the  only  thing  I  could  not 

162 


AN  AIMERICAN'S  LONDON 

understand  was  any  wife  living  in  Seattle  with  such 
a  pleasant  husband  living  in  London.  It  reminds  me 
vaguely  of  the  New  York  woman  cutting  a  wide 
swath  in  London,  who  told  me  she  had  moved  there 
to  be  nearer  her  husband.  ''And  where  is  your  hus- 
band?" I  asked. 

''Hongkong/'  she  replied. 

Encouraged  by  his  sympathy,  I  went  to  the  Amer- 
ican shop  and  bought  there  a  five-foot,  twofold  pine 
clothes-horse,  some  hooks  to  screw  into  the  cross- 
pieces,  and  sent  the  treasures  to  the  maisonnette. 
And  I  arrived  home  just  in  time,  the  next  afternoon, 
to  keep  my  landlady  from  despatching  the  horse  to 
the  kitchen.  Even  then  she  did  not  think  the  kitchen 
was  the  place  for  the  horse,  not  that  she  preferred  a 
stable  for  it,  but  that  laundry  is  never  done  in  the 
house.  Clothes  go  off  and  get  themselves  washed 
in  some  unspeakable  place,  and  we  wear  them  next 
to  our  skin  as  we  read  articles  at  clubs  on  hygiene 
in  the  home. 

She  was  not  much  more  relieved  when  I  led  the 
animal  from  the  sitting-room  into  the  bedroom,  and 
her  eyebrow  never  came  down  until  she  was  invited 
in  to  see  the  clothes-horse,  to  all  appearances  a 
cretonne-covered  screen  around  my  dressing-table, 
with  garments  hanging  on  the  inside  of  the  fold,  ob- 
scured to  all  but  me.  In  the  hope  that  she  would 
emulate  me,  for  she  was  providing  other  maisonnettes, 
I  pretended  I  had  read  of  the  idea  in  my  English 
morning  paper,  but  I  never  deceived  her  for  a  moment. 

I  began  the  day  with  leisured  enjoyment  of  my 

newspaper,  for  there  I  found  the  chronicled  events 

of  the  day  before  at  which  I  had  expected  to  be  an 

onlooker,  but  had  let  the  occasion  slip  l^y,  and  the 

IG3 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

promised  excitements  of  the  day  to  come,  which  I 
also  expected  to  participate  in — as  I  sipped  my  coffee. 
At  first,  better  to  learn  of  the  pageants  which  I  ought 
to  attend,  I  took  in  a  large,  unwieldy  paper,  difficult 
to  read  in  bed,  and  undoubtedly  proportioned  for 
the  conservative  class  who  ate  their  breakfast  at  a 
table.  It  was  full  of  court  doings,  the  edge  of  which 
is  always  open  to  the  public,  curbstone  participators, 
yet  I  discontinued  the  journal  on  that  day  a  correctly 
framed  advertisement  of  a  drawing-room  entertain- 
ment offered  in  its  columns  'daughter  with  pro- 
priety." I  felt  hedged  in  by  this  suggestion,  and  I 
since  have  had  recourse  to  a  smaller  sheet,  evidently 
designed  for  a  single  bed. 

You  will  observe  I  say,  "discontinued  the  paper," 
whereas  a  short  time  ago  I  would  have  said  "stopped" 
it.  I  must  be  feeling  the  influence  of  a  little  lord  of 
fourteen  who  shares  with  me  the  same  dentist.  Teeth 
have  an  outrageous  trick  of  going  back  on  you  in 
London,  and  it  is  probably  arranged  by  the  govern- 
ment, anxious  to  have  you  leave  vast  sums  in  their 
country.  The  little  lord  and  I  were  both  waiting  in 
the  anteroom  of  back  Punches.  No,  it  was  not  a 
pugilistic  ring.  I  should  say  "full  of  back  numbers 
of  Punch.''  And  I  was  eying  him  with  a  great  deal 
of  interest  not  only  because  he  was  a  lord  talking  to 
his  aunt,  who  was  a  duchess,  but  in  the  hope  of  dis- 
covering some  reason  why  an  American  boy  and  an 
English  boy,  both  with  the  same  number  of  legs  and 
nos3s,  and  general  proclivities,  should  be  so  absolutely 
different.  This  nice  little  fellow,  tapping  his  stick 
against  his  boot  as  he  talked,  no  doubt  had  a  sense  of 
fun,  just  as  the  American  boy  has.  They  wear  pretty 
much  the  same  Idnd  of    clothes  (barring  the  stick), 

164 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

certainly  read  the  same  books,  and  fall  in  love  with 
the  same  kind  of  girls,  but  here  he  was  using  a  stilted 
language  which  would  make  an  American  boy,  in  no 
way  more  of  a  boy  than  he,  want  to  fight  him. 

It  was  this  little  chap  who  had  found  Punch  a  bit 
of  a  bore  of  late,  and  had  ''discontinued"  it.  He  had 
not  stopped  it;  he  was  wonderfully  and  spontaneously 
correct  in  his  speech.  And  that  very  thing  may  be 
the  difference.  We  have  to  achieve  form — they  start 
out  with  it.  That  may  be  the  reason  I  see  very  little 
difference  between  the  well-bred  grown-up  in  America 
and  over  here.  After  a  quarter  of  a  century,  the  young 
Englishman  begins  to  take  on  a  cosmopolitanism; 
his  insularities  are  merged  into  newer  attitudes  of 
life,  just  as  the  American  tones  himself  down  by 
absorbing  into  his  eager  nature  the  poise  of  the  older 
civilizations  with  which  he  has  come  in  contact. 

If  I  thought  the  little  lord  was  funny,  he  must 
have  been  more  amused  by  my  companion,  who  was 
our  comedian,  dragged  there  by  me  to  have  an  aching 
tooth  assuaged.  As  an  emergency  case  he  was  sent 
ahead,  yet  would  have  remained  continuing  to  suffer 
when  his  summons  came.  ''It's  all  very  well  for  you," 
he  said,  with  a  belligerent  air  to  the  entire  waiting- 
room,  as  I  endeavored  to  prod  him  through  the  door; 
"you've  been  here  before,  but  I've  never  had  a  dentist 
in  my  mouth!"  At  twenty-five  and  over  the  American 
and  Englishman  would  have  smiled.  The  American 
boy  would  have  guffawed.  But  the  little  lord  held 
himself  politely  in. 

Even  if  there  were  no  small  peer  to  engage  me,  I 
found  in  the  official  program  for  the  day  enough  to 
keep  me  running  from  one  point  to  another,  and  then 
miss  half  the  show.    For  the  longer  the  stranger  rc- 

1G5 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

mains  the  more  he  appreciates  that  London  is  ohe 
great  pageant,  and  that  the  patient  sightseer  need 
never  grow  weary.  I  say  patient,  for  if  you  are  an 
onlooker  you  must  wait.  Americans  are  not  good 
waiters,  but  the  EngUsh  still  have  the  calm  faculty 
of  standing  still  to  watch  the  world  go  by. 

I  had  thought  that  the  enormous  activities  of  the 
war,  in  which  every  one  was  concerned,  would  cause 
a  flagging  of  devotion  to  somebody  else's  social  tri- 
umphs, but  again  the  crowds  are  forming  outside  St. 
Margaret's  Church  when  a  famous  beauty  marries; 
again  they  line  up  when  the  Prince  of  Wales  goes  to 
the  city  to  become  a  Fishmonger;  again  they  stand  to 
watch  other  people's  horses  cantering  up  and  down 
the  Rotten  Row  in  Hj^de  Park. 

Little  children  of  the  rich  who  ride  on  small  ponies, 
attended  by  careful  grooms   or  red-faced   mothers, 
have   strange   company   these   days,    such   as   their 
forbears  never  reckoned  on.    Australians  with  tufted 
ostrich  feathers  in  their  broad  hats  slouch  low  in  their 
saddles  on  lean  mounts.     Americans  ride  by  with 
loose  lines,  and  leave  their  horses  tethered  by  the  in- 
verting of  the  reins  over  the  beasts'  heads,  while  they 
talk  to  pretty  ladies  in  the  park.     Along  the  East 
Drive  huge  army  trucks  are  allowed  to  pound  where 
once  only  private  carriages  made  their  way — the  hack- 
ing vehicles  still  denied  that  aristocratic  course.  Girls 
occasionally  drive  these  trucks,  as  they  drive  the  big 
limousines  for  the  army.    You  can  tell  the  estate  of 
the  chauffeuse  by  means  of  the  quality  of  the  fur  on 
her  khaki  overcoat,  yet  she  just  as  cheerily  takes  or- 
ders.    One,  1  admit,  was  whistling  while  her  chief 
was  directing  her.    Then  she  looked  at  him  and  smiled 
as  she  closed  the  limousine  door.    From  him  there  was 

166 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

the  faintest  softening  of  his  face,  and  again  I  was 
humbled,  for  the  war  has  created  fierce  appetites 
and  I  know  now  that  I  cannot  run  away  from  them. 

Nor  will  these  women  with  the  rich  fur  on  their 
collars  return  easily  to  the  early  existence  controlled 
by  Victorian  precedent.  I  was  passing  a  house  in 
Park  Lane  the  other  day.  An  august  lady  was  get- 
ting into  a  car,  while  the  daughter  of  the  lady,  once 
more  in  "civies,"  motioned  to  the  chauffeur  to  give 
his  place  to  her.  ''Oh,  I  say,  Taddy,  I  wouldn't," 
protested  the  grande  dame.  "Stuff!"  returned  the 
daughter,  and  sat  in  the  driver's  seat,  while  mother 
within  the  limousine  wondered  what  they  were  all 
coming  to. 

They  a^e  coming  to  some  hard  times  before  the 
women  war-workers  of  good  estate  are  disposed  of. 
The  young  woman  of  birth  has  rejoiced  in  her  freedom, 
and  is  loath  to  give  up  what  job  she  can  hold.  One 
would  have  thought  that  with  all  those  graves  in 
Flanders,  there  might  now  be  work  for  all,  but  it 
would  take  more  than  a  milKon  dead  to  create  suffi- 
cient vacancies  for  overcrowded  England.  In  an 
excerpt  from  my  morning  paper  I  note  that  in  certain 
departments  an  appeal  was  made  to  married  women 
to  give  way  to  unmarried  women  in  need  of  clerk- 
ships, and  at  Woolwich  Arsenal  between  two  and 
three  thousand  women  not  actually  dependent  upon 
their  earnings  immediately  gave  place;  yet  on  the 
other  hand,  at  a  very  large  factory  full  of  women  not 
in  real  need  there  was  no  response  whatever.  And 
now  the  papers  are  full  of  the  cries  of  men  who  find 
their  old  jobs  usurped  by  women.  "Doing  better 
work,"  their  bosses  say.  "Working  for  less  money," 
they  do  not  add.  It  makes  one  very  sad,  for  it  would 
12  167 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

seem  that  the  war  is  by  no  means  over;  only  the  op- 
ponents are  different. 

Just  as  an  army  truck  going  down  the  King's  Drive 
creates  no  excitement,  so  does  a  body  of  Household 
Guards  in  glittering  uniform,  on  black  horses,  but 
mildly  attract.  The  Tommy  in  hospital-blue  and  the 
soldier  not  yet  demobbed,  who  loiter  in  the  park,  are 
inclined  to  sneer  at  the  trappings.  Although  they 
line  up  for  royalties  and  brilliant  evidences  of  a  mo- 
narchical government,  they  do  not  receive  the  old 
order  of  things  with  awe. 

The  King  and  Queen,  and  Queen  of  Rumania  came 
to  our  play  early  in  our  season,  and  there  was  much 
more  stir  among  the  American  actors  than  there  was 
in  the  British  audience.  The  royal  entrance  is  up 
a  side-street,  next  to  our  stage-door,  and  all  the  after- 
noon during  our  matinee  there  was  an  industrious 
cleaning  of  the  royal  reception-room,  which  leads 
from  the  door  to  the  box,  a  letting  down  of  the  awning, 
and  an  unrolling  of  the  red  carpet  (I  wonder  why  it 
is  always  of  that  hue?  Think  of  a  lifetime  of  stepping 
on  turkey-red,  if  you  didn't  like  the  color).  Mrs. 
Wren  had  my  laces  reeking  in  gasolene,  and  looked 
upon  it  as  nothing  less  than  the  hand  of  God  that 
waved  my  hair  that  morning. 

Having  played  before  royalty  years  ago,  I  coun- 
seled the  company  to  feel  no  disappointment  if  the 
house  did  not  laugh  as  much  as  usual.  They  would 
be  watching  their  rulers,  but  I  was  wrong — again. 
The  audience  paid  no  attention  to  their  sovereigns 
from  the  time  they  promptly  seated  themselves  to 
that  moment  when  they  took  their  departure  to  the 
tune  of  the  national  air.  And  the  play  never  went 
better.     Since  then  the  awning  has  been  let  down 

168 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

many  times  over  the  entrance,  for  royalties  have  come 
again  and  again,  and  the  httle  princes  have  bought 
seats  and  sat  in  the  stalls.  For  a  while  we  peeped 
through  the  stage-door  to  watch  their  departure,  but 
on  the  night  I  discovered  one  of  the  older  princesses 
without  a  self-starter  to  her  car  my  interest  waned, 
and  in  time  the  exhortation  from  the  management  not 
to  look  toward  the  royal  box  was  idle,  for  we  forgot 
their  presence. 

The  English  royalties  can  teach  the  average  theater- 
goer a  lesson,  however.  Like  the  pit  (the  plain  people), 
they  come  on  time.  With  a  full  program  before  them 
every  day,  they  keep  their  appointments  to  the  minute, 
and  while  the  tragedies  of  the  war — the  snapped  re- 
lationship between  kin,  the  assassinated  cousins — 
have  made  them  careworn  in  appearance,  they  keep 
smiling. 

Possibly  one  of  the  greatest  indications  of  the  ap- 
preciation of  the  unrest  among  their  subjects  is  the 
endless  visiting  of  the  sovereigns  upon  their  humble 
people.  "Surprise  visits"  they  are  called,  a  form  of 
pleasantry  which,  personally,  I  could  do  without. 
One  day  is  for  babies,  one  day  for  an  inspection  of 
mean  housing,  one  for  feverish  miners,  one  for  re- 
sentful colonials,  and  always,  always  the  hospitals 
for  the  wounded.  The  people's  respect  for  royalty 
and  their  indifference  to  it  is  curiously  blended.  They 
admire — and  make  a  joke  of  their  admiration.  On  the 
night  of  the  attendance  of  the  King  and  Queen  at  our 
theater  I  overheard  one  of  the  stage-hands  speaking 
to  another.  They  had  both  been  inspecting  their 
majesties  through  the  curtain. 

"She  looks  well,  Bill,"  said  one. 

"She  do  look  well,"  agreed  Bill.    Then,  as  though 

169 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

ashamed  of  his  enthusiasm,  ''But  she  didn't  come  for 
my  washing  this  week!" 

While  the  passing  show  is  for  any  one  who  will  wait 
to  see  it,  we  of  our  company  are  a  faint  part  of  the 
procession  itself,  for  every  night  there  come  to  our 
greenroom  the  American  war  correspondents  passing 
through  the  city.  Red  Cross  dignitaries,  or  our  sol- 
diers sent  over  from  the  Continent  on  various  missions. 
They  are  not  all  officers.  Privates  fill  the  room, 
homesick  boys  waiting  for  news  of  their  folks,  girl- 
entertainers  straight  from  Coblenz,  with  the  experi- 
ences that  would  fill  volumes  if  they  knew  how  to 
write  them  down.  Between  scenes  of  our  little  war 
play  on  the  stage  we  snatch  a  moment  to  ask  of  the 
greater  drama  in  which  they  have  played,  while  the 
call-boy  listens  for  our  cue  to  take  us  back  to  oft- 
repeated,  higher-sounding  phrases  than  these  real 
participators  ever  uttered. 

One  night  a  woman  correspondent  was  allowed  to 
slip  into  the  entrance  where  the  understudies  sit. 
(It  is  the  O.  P.  side,  which,  being  interpreted,  means 
Opposite  Prompt.)  And  she  was  good  enough  to 
cry  over  my  nightly  lament  for  my  dead  soldier  son. 
Yet  she  had  seen  many  boys  really  die,  and  was 
carrying  in  her  hands  at  that  moment  her  helmet, 
scarred  by  the  shrapnel  marks  from  a  hundred  times 
under  fire.  I  cannot  for  the  life  of  me  understand  how 
a  war  drama  can  interest  an  individual  who  has  known 
the  real  theater  of  war.  It  must  be  that  reproduction 
in  art  does  not  pass  unheeded,  even  though  the  audi- 
ence is  unaware  of  its  appreciation  of  it.  It  must 
be,  although  frequently  disputed,  that  acting  is  really 
artistry. 

But,  while  this  may  explain  their  interest  in  the 

170 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

war  drama,  it  does  not  make  clear  why  thousands 
should  flock  to  that  great  auditorium,  Olympia,  to 
see  a  sham  battle  which  has  lately  been  engaging  the 
attention  of  London.  For  four  years  England  has 
heard  the  faint  roar  of  real  guns.  No  detonation  has 
come  to  their  ears  which  has  not  carried  with  it  de- 
struction to  some  British  household.  No  spectator 
goes  to  Olympia  who  has  not  in  some  way  been  af- 
fected by  the  war,  yet  they  fill  the  benches  to  witness 
this  child's  play  of  taking  mimic  trenches. 

And  they  will  talk  of  the  show  at  Olympia  when 
they  will  not  talk  of  actual  battling.  One  does  not 
dine  nor  lunch  nor  tea  in  England  now  without  the 
presence  of  at  least  one  soldier,  yet  I  have  never  heard 
a  man  touch  upon  his  experiences.  I  don't  know  how 
he  can  avoid  them,  when  for  years  he  has  had  little 
else  for  a  topic.  An  actor  will  necessarily  say,  in  the 
recounting  of  a  story  having  to  do  with  himself,  "I 
was  playing  that  season  in  So-and-so — and  a  rotten 
part  it  was,  too!"  But  these  young  men  with  decora- 
tions on  their  breasts  do  not  say,  "When  I  was  at 
Vimy  Ridge,  the  day  we  made  the  hill — we  had  a 
rotten  location — "  They  don't  say  anything.  They 
laugh  and  listen  to  their  women-folk  talking  of  do- 
mestic difficulties — or  of  air  raids.  And — this  is 
funny — I  don't  think  to  ask  them  anything  about 
themselves  that  has  to  do  with  the  fight.  Or  is  the 
whole  subject  too  vast  to  touch  upon?  I  don't  know. 
Imagine  asking  a  man  who  wears  a  Mons  ribbon,  and 
must  have  seen  the  whole  struggle,  what  interested 
him  most  in  the  war.  If  he  had  been  any  of  the  men 
I  know  over  here,  he  would  answer,  "Getting  back 
home." 

A  little  while  ago  I  had  tea  in  a  jolly  garden  over- 

171 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

looking  Hyde  Park — the  kind  of  house  I  looked  at 
wistfully  for  years  from  Knightsbridge — and  one  guest 
there  did  go  so  far  as  to  speak  of  his  shattered  arm 
which  hung  at  his  side.  He  spoke  of  it  because  his 
hostess  bluntly  asked  him  how  it  was.  "It  will  always 
be  a  dub,"  he  replied,  casually,  going  on  to  tell  me 
all  about  Parsees  in  India.  Yet  he  had  fought  from 
the  first  engagement,  she  managed  to  let  me  know 
through  ejaculations  over  remotely  removed  Indian 
characteristics,  and  his  regiment  was  just  back  to 
the  ground  they  had  lost  in  the  first  retreat  when  the 
bugle  sang  truce.  Only,  while  it  was  the  same  regi- 
ment, there  were  but  three  of  the  original  number 
regaining  their  old  positions,  unless  an  invisible  host 
marched  by  the  side  of  the  newer  comrades. 

I  stumbled  out  something  then  of  my  own  curious 
emotion  as  I  awoke  in  New  York  upon  the  morning 
of  the  real  armistice,  and  lay  in  my  bed  listening  to 
the  shriek  of  the  sirens  and  the  answering  roar  of  the 
people  as  they  turned  out  in  the  clear  dawn.  ''And  the 
noisier  the  city  grew,"  I  told  them,  "the  more  I 
thought  of  that  great  muffling  of  guns  along  the  miles 
of  battle-line  over  there.  The  din  seemed  to  intensify 
the  sense  of  that  silence,  somehow  or  other." 

"It  was  quiet,"  granted  the  colonel. 

"Did  the  boys  cry?"  I  dared  to  ask. 

"No,"  said  the  gentleman  who  had  fought  at  Mons. 
"They  just  sat  down  and  picked  off  vermin.  They 
felt  they  could  get  somewhere  with  them,  at  last." 

It  is  when  I  go  away  from  a  household  like  this  one, 
the  hostess  with  one  dead  boy  and  another  with  a 
dismembered  body,  or  when  a  mother  who  has  lost 
her  son  in  real  life  and  comes  back  (back  on  the  stage) 
to  tell  me  that  in  the  play  I  do  just  what  she  did, 

172 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

that  I  marvel  they  bother  to  receive  us  Americans  at 
all.  For  the  English  women,  while  knowing  their 
own  politics  very  well,  know  very  little  of  the  workings 
of  other  countries.  They  translate  our  retarded  entry 
into  the  war  as  the  concerted  wish  of  a  country  to 
make  money  and  remain  comfortable.  There  is  no 
use  going  into  a  dissertation  on  this  subject  now,  but 
back  of  their  kindly  personal  feelings  many  of  them 
read  us  as  a  nation  in  this  fashion.  I  make  small  effort 
to  combat  it,  for  if  it  is  their  sincere  belief,  how  bitter 
must  be  the  hearts  of  women  with  sons  killed,  who, 
to  their  mind,  might  have  been  spared  had  we  entered 
the  fray  earlier,  and,  by  the  force  of  our  numbers, 
shortened  its  hideous  duration. 

It  is  grimly  amusing,  however,  that  those  who  hold 
our  army  in  contempt  at  the  same  time  lay  such 
stress  on  what  we  could  have  accomplished  had  these 
same  forces  been  added  to  theirs  at  an  earlier  period. 
Alas!  I  think  we  would  have  occupied  the  same  place 
in  their  cognizances  that  we  hold  now,  for —  But 
there!  I  am  reaching  the  crux  of  my  own  deductions 
in  the  middle  of  a  chapter  which  started  with  mild 
divertissements,  yet  I  must  write  it  down  as  it  comes 
to  me,  since  the  social  paradox  of  to-day  is  this  natural 
mingling  of  light  laughter  with  deeply  serious  thoughts. 
For  it  seems  to  me  that,  back  of  the  sore  hearts  of 
bereft  mothers  and  wives — beside  that,  perhaps  I 
should  say — which  is  so  understandable,  is  an  un- 
easiness that  emanates  from  a  purely  commercial 
anxiety;  that  all  jealousy  between  nations  such  as 
England  and  America  is  founded  on  competition  in 
trade. 

It  is  a  pugilistic  encounter  without  gloves.  When 
one  nation  slips  and  falls  the  count  is  taken,  the 

173 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

countries  looking  on  hold  their  breath,  the  world  is 
tense.  The  nation  that  has  slipped  and  fallen  does 
not  rise  to  its  feet,  the  count  is  finished,  and  the  world 
acclaims  the  conqueror.  I  know  it  is  Utopian,  and 
cannot  be,  but  sometimes  as  I  go  about  these  London 
streets  I  wish  I  could  see  pinned  upon  the  breasts  of 
the  paper-venders  who  carry  the  red-lettered  news  to 
the  passer-by  that  my  country  has  cried  out  to  this 
country:  '^We  are  your  allies  in  peace  as  in  war. 
Let  us  build  up  your  trade." 

But  I  suppose  such  Britons  as  have  discounted 
what  efforts  we  have  made — and  to  me  they  seem  not 
inconsiderable — would  call  this  offer  damned  cheek. 
To  change  some  minds  in  England — to  set  them  work- 
ing differently — would  be  as  outrageous  to  the  owners 
of  the  minds  as  the  striking  off  of  an  honorable  quar- 
tering on  their  coat  of  arms  and  replacing  it  with  the 
bar  sinister.  Though  too  precious  a  people,  too  pol- 
ished down,  for  ancient  hates,  they  still  possess 
ancient  prejudices  which  resolve  themselves  into  sus- 
picions. Opposed  to  whatever  is  new,  they  naturally 
suspect  a  new  country.  With  centuries  of  statecraft 
it  is  impossible  for  such  minds  to  believe  that  the 
United  States  has  no  ulterior  motive  in  its  generosity. 
In  our  own  phrasing,  they  look  for  the  nigger  in  the 
wood-pile.  One  British  host,  with  unparalleled  lack 
of  repression,  scoffed  aloud  the  other  day  when  I 
spoke  of  the  sincerity  of  our  dollar-a-year  millionaires. 
He,  no  doubt,  believes  that  our  great  financiers 
worked  through  the  hot  months  in  Washington  to 
pull  off  a  little  deal  in  shoe  leather  or  tin  cans. 

Splendidly  enough,  for  me,  since  my  problem  over 
here  is  but  a  domestic  one,  this  is  the  mind  which 
refuses  a  bit  of  carpet  for  the  maid's  room.    It  is  the 

174 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

feudal  mind,  and  it  is  probably  suffering  more  in 
this  hesivj  whirlpool  of  new  ideas  which  is  swirling 
around  all  classes  in  England  than  any  of  us,  who 
have  no  traditions  to  hamper  us,  can  understand. 
With  all  this  healthy  effort  going  on  in  Great  Britain 
for  a  more  sympathetic  understanding,  it  is  a  pleasure 
to  reaUze  that  the  ruling  mentalities  are  not  impreg- 
nated by  these  moldy  principles.  And,  again,  it  is 
not  the  mind  of  the  individual,  or  a  group  of  minds, 
which  is  inimical  to  development,  but  the  imprint 
of  an  old  system  upon  this  spirit  which  is  seeking 
freedom  for  itself  and  for  others. 

I  have  said,  "splendidly  enough  for  me,"  for  it 
renders  the  situation  less  complex  when  the  fault  in 
small  as  well  as  large  instances  can  be  traced  to  noth- 
ing more  nor  less  than  an  ancient  prejudice  that  is 
growing  fainter.  As  in  a  lithograph  upon  stone  where 
each  impression  becomes  more  blurred  until  the  origi- 
nal scheme  of  the  picture  fades  into  nothingness,  so 
will  this  old  regime  grow  more  and  more  meaningless, 
until  the  paper  pulled  from  the  press  will  issue  un- 
stained by  the  obsolete  tracery  on  the  tablets. 


•    Chapter  XII 

I  LEARNED  something  more  about  the  feudal 
system,  which  I  hope  I  will  manage  to  keep  to 
myself  until  the  end  of  the  chapter,  leading  up 
to  it  by  dramatically  recounting  my  experiences  which 
have  to  do  with  the  cooking  of  tripe.  It  must  be  quite 
discoverable  to  all  that  my  mentality  is  not  sufficiently 
enormous  to  dispose  of  the  affairs  of  the  British  na- 
tion, or  any  other  nation  no  matter  how  tiny,  but  side- 
lights on  the  situation  came  humbly  to  me  through 
tripe  and  other  offal. 

For  tripe,  sweetbreads,  brains,  liver,  and  such  edible 
internal  arrangements  of  fish,  fowl,  and  flesh  are 
known  over  here  as  offal,  and  since  they  are  called 
offal  they  are  low,  and  since  they  are  low  any  one  who 
eats  them  is  low — therefore  not  the  lady.  I  arrived 
at  this  understanding  through  the  continued  efforts 
to  replace  Gladys  with  a  good  housekeeper  who  would 
take  charge  of  everything,  and  allow  Beechey  to  get 
to  the  studio  and  paint  hair  on  the  dog  portrait  before 
night  closed  in  on  her  early-closing  studio. 

My  desire  to  supplant  Gladys  with  a  working 
housekeeper  grew  more  keen  after  Beechey  had  ren- 
dered her  first  accounts.  She  had  dipped  into  her 
money,  the  accounts  showed,  and  I  owed  her  three 
pounds.  Yet,  upon  going  over  the  entries  myself,  I 
found  that — instead — Beechey  owed  me  four  pounds 

176 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

and  then  some.  She  sweetly  admitted  her  arithmetical 
errors  and  was  not  as  angry  with  me  as  some  women 
would  have  been  upon  discovering  that  they  were  in 
the  wrong.  But  she  besought  me  not  to  tell  the 
president  of  the  guild  which  worked  for  the  soldiers' 
orphans,  as  she  had  offered  to  give  her  services  as 
bookkeeper  to  this  guild,  elated  by  her  prospective 
success  over  my  accounts.  The  lady,  for  some  reason 
which  Beechey  could  not  understand,  had  declined 
this  generous  desire  to  do  her  bit,  and  Beechey  now 
realized  it  was  just  as  well,  and  she  would  paint  them 
a  picture  instead. 

I  had  no  intention  of  telling  the  president,  but  I 
did  tell  the  leading  man,  for  it  was  he  who  went  over 
the  accounts  with  me.  He  didn't  know  any  more 
about  accounts  than  Beechey  did,  and  it  was  to  prove 
to  him  how  helpless  they  would  both  be  if  they  ever 
attempted  to  work  out  any  of  the  problems  of  life 
together  that  I  let  him  see  her  deficiencies.  I  was 
cruel,  to  be  kind.  In  spite  of  my  impatience  with 
other  people's  love-affairs  in  America,  I  found  myself 
speculating  a  good  deal  on  the  kind  of  husband 
Beechey  ought  to  have,  and  the  leading  man  was  not 
even  at  the  foot  of  the  class.  Beechey  must  marry 
a  business  man  as  soon  as  I  could  find  him,  and  the 
leading  man  must  marry  some  one  who  would  clean 
up  his  room  and  keep  his  dressing-table  tidy.  I  had 
tried  disgusting  Beechey  by  arranging  for  her  to  step 
into  his  dressing-room  one  night  and  observe  the  chaos, 
but  she  had  not  observed  anything  at  all,  beyond  the 
man  himself,  and  thought  the  room  was  most  hand- 
some with  a  very  aristocratic  nose.  My  actor-friend 
behaved  just  as  foolishly  over  Beechey  charging  me 

nine  shillings  for  cocoa  instead  of  ninepence.     He 

177 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

said  she  was  a  darling,  and  was  perfectly  indifferent 
to  the  way  I  was  being  ever  so  innocently  robbed. 

One  of  the  curses  of  old  age  is  the  development  of 
theories.  They  grow  like  fungi  on  old  bark.  A  theory 
to  be  applied  to  somebody  else  is  all  that  is  left  of  a 
joy  that  was  once  yours.  It's  the  fruit  of  a  tree  whose 
intoxicating  blossoms  once  filled  your  heart,  not  your 
mind.  What  I  don't  quite  get  is  the  poor  quality  of 
a  theory  that  occasionally  springs  from  a  highly 
fertilized  experience.  I  was  still  clinging  to  my  be- 
lief in  opposites.  However,  in  this  chapter  I  must 
stick  firmly  to  what  lessons  were  derived  from  tripe. 

The  pleasantest  part  of  a  performance  in  the  theater 
is  the  going  home— we  are  like  the  soldiers  in  that — 
and  the  pleasantest  night  of  all  is  "treasury,"  as  they 
say  in  England.  "Pretty  night,"  some  of  us  call  it. 
Yet  eleven  o'clock  is  an  agreeable  hour  after  one's 
work  is  over,  although  the  work  has  not  been  paid 
for,  when  a  stout  little  war-'oss  is  waiting  in  the  rain 
to  take  me  home.  I  was  very  secure  in  my  four- 
wheeler,  and  when  the  chill  spring  storms  grew  tor- 
rential I  wished  there  could  be  some  way  of  taking 
the  driver  outside  inside.  I  am  sure  the  war-'oss 
could  have  managed  very  well  without  any  assistance, 
for  he  frequently  negotiated  the  turns  while  the  driver 
flapped  his  arms  like  a  windmill  in  his  effort, to  avoid 
complete  blood-curdling. 

I  never  grew  very  well  acquainted  with  my  cabby, 
owing  to  our  occupation  of  different  strategical  posi- 
tions. His  respect  for  me  increased  the  more  often 
royalty  came  to  our  door,  and  our  growler  stood  along- 
side the  carriages  or  motors  with  their  familiar  scar- 
let hair-line  decoration  on  the  deep  red  body  of  the 

equipages.     He  became  a  familiar  at  the  stage-door 

178 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

entrance,  however,  waiting  for  me  inside  while  he 
talked  to  the  night  watchman  of  the  days  he  drove 
the  Sisters  Something-or-other  from  the  Halhambra. 
I  never  could  make  out  who  the  sisters  were,  as  my 
appearance  caused  a  cessation  of  the  topic,  but  I 
fancy  they  learned  to  know  him  better  than  I  did. 
That  is  one  of  the  disadvantages  of  being  a  leading 
lady — you  cannot  get  well  acquainted  with  cabbies. 

The  nearest  we  came  to  any  degree  of  intimacy  was 
the  night  his  lamps  wouldn't  burn  and  we  were 
scolded  all  the  way  down  the  Mall  by  observant  bob- 
bies. I  would  not  have  believed  that  one  small,  un- 
lighted  growler  could  attract  so  much  attention.  Had 
I  sat  on  the  cab  roof,  illumining  the  way  by  a  search- 
light, no  one  would  have  noticed  me.  It  took  us  an 
hour  to  get  to  Chelsea,  for  he  would  no  more  light  up 
again  than  the  lamps  would  once  more  flicker  out, 
whereupon,  fearful  of  the  next  bobby,  I  would  tap 
upon  the  window  and  he  would  descend  to  strike 
matches.  It  ended  by  my  carrying  the  lantern  inside, 
held  close  to  the  window,  like  a  wise  but  indolent 
Virgin  taking  her  lamp  for  a  drive.  But  no  matter 
at  what  hour  I  arrived,  Beechey  would  be  waiting 
for  me,  and  after  being  told  by  my  cabby  to  ''mind  the 
step,  ma'am,"  and  agreeing  that  it  was  '"orrid  weath- 
er," I  would  tap  with  my  umbrella  upon  the  window, 
to  prove  I  was  not  a  burglar  (as  burglars  do  not  carry 
umbrellas),  and  Beechey  would  let  me  in  quietly,  so 
as  not  to  disturb  the  Pomeranians. 

Then  we  would  sip  chocolate  and  talk  of  ways  of 
supplanting  Gladys.  Beechey  had  ideas,  which  re- 
minded me  vaguely  of  the  lady  who  had  a  great  deal 
of  taste — all  bad.     One  night  it  was  the  securing  of  a 

bonne  by  advertising  in  the  columns  of  the  Belgian 

179 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

newspaper  established  in  London  upon  that  nation's 
overflow  into  England.  She  said  it  would  be  no  trouble 
at  all  to  secure  a  bonne,  and  it  would  be  good  for  our 
French,  as  even  Belgian  French  was  better  than  no 
French  at  all.  I  had  a  feeling  that  she  wanted  a 
bonne  so  that  she  could  paint  her.  But  a  Belgian  in 
a  studio  would  be  better  than  a  Gladys  in  a  kitchen, 
and  I  started  out  to  trace  the  newspaper  to  its  source. 
The  trouble  with  this  idea  was  there  wasn't  any  news- 
paper. It  had  ceased  publication  on  the  return  of 
the  people  to  their  country.  They  had  been  going 
home  for  some  time,  and,  as  far  as  I  can  make  out,  no 
departing  guests  were  ever  more  warmly  speeded. 

It  is  sad  that  any  one  could  be  turned  into  a  pauper 
after  six  months'  support  (I  am  sure  I  would  become 
one  in  less  time  than  that,  if  I  did  not  die  of  shock 
at  being  supported  even  for  a  day),  and  the  Belgians 
had  three  years  of  generous  fare.  I  don't  know  any- 
thing funnier, .  or  anything  more  melancholy,  than  to 
start  an  English  circle  on  the  subject  of  the  Belgians 
those  in  the  circle  have  taken  care  of.  It  doesn't  take 
a  circle.  Going  along  the  streets  of  small  villages  in 
the  dead  of  night,  you  can  hear  those  passing  you 
talking  of  their  departed  guests.  Scraps  of  eluci- 
dating conversation  come  to  you :  "Never  thanked  me 
— the  best  cuts  of  meat,  my  dear — simply  laughed 
at  the  wood-pile;  I  was  willing  to  pay  them — ''.  And 
so  on  till  the  heart  grows  sick. 

The  visitors,  probably,  had  a  stunned  reason  of 
their  own.  Their  country,  by  its  resistance  and  con- 
sequent devastation,  they  may  believe,  kept  the  Ger- 
mans from  the  Channel  ports  while  the  British  pre- 
pared their  hosts.  If  it  had  not  been  Belgians  in 
England  it  might  have  been  Germans,  they  probably 

180 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

figure,  and  there  is  no  argument  over  which  race  was 
preferable  to  the  British.  Well,  they  are  gone  now, 
and  so  is  the  Belgian  paper  in  which  w^e  were  to  ad- 
vertise for  a  femme  de  menage,  and  Beechey,  who  had 
no  doubt  visualized  her  spring  picture  of  an  old 
grand'mere  making  lace,  already  hanging  on  the  line 
at  the  Academy,  with  great  elasticity  of  mind  de- 
stroyed the  canvas.  She  now  concentrated  on  a 
darky.  ''Why  do  we  not  get  a  colored  girl?"  she 
asked,  suddenly,  one  night. 

''What  makes  you  think  there  are  any  colored  girls 
around?"  I  returned. 

"There  are  colored  men,  so  there  must  be  colored 
girls." 

Beechey  still  remains  firmly  an  American,  holding 
on  to  a  few  simple  beliefs  over  the  instinctive  prefer- 
ence of  a  race  for  its  own,  and  of  a  colored  man's 
abhorrence  for  a  white  woman.  One  can't  go  into 
that.  At  least,  I  need  not,  although  England  will  find 
soon  that  it  will  have  to.  Among  all  the  perplexing 
questions  with  which  it  must  grapple.  Great  Britain, 
to  its  amazement,  is  confronted  with  a  black-and- 
white  question  of  its  own.  After  some  fifty  years' 
rightful  censure  of  the  rowdies  of  the  United  States 
for  their  violence  toward  the  black,  their  own  rowdies 
have  developed  violence.  And,  I  regret  to  have  to 
admit  it,  "mere  sex,"  not  fear  emanating  from  force 
of  superior  numbers,  is  the  cause  of  the  disturbances. 
It  is  a  matter  that  master  minds  can  yet  control 
over  here.  But  when  a  master,  or  at  least  an  excellent 
mind  like  that  of  a  well-known  Englishman,  writes 
a  novel  martyrizing  two  colored  men  because  they 
cannot  find  any  women  of  England  to  love  them,  and 
does  not  offer  as  a  solution  a  college-full  of  gentle  black 

181 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

girls  in  America,  I  suppose  the  mob  thinks  it  time  to 
take  matters  into  their  own  crude  hands. 

Beechey,  however,  did  discover  some  colored  girls 
going  into  the  stage-door  of  ''Chu-Chin-Chow,"  and 
dared  to  ask  them  if  they  would  contemplate  a  do- 
mestic position.  There  was  no  insolence  in  their 
manner,  but  they  told  her  they  were  artists  in  the 
theater  (probably  appearing  as  slaves,  with  peacock- 
feather  fans),  and  preferred  it  to  kitchen-work.  For 
once  their  poor  black  skins  were  of  value,  and  I  think 
that  this  form  of  the  commerciaUzation  of  their  color 
is  not  to  be  despised. 

I  did  not  encourage  tempting  them.  It  was  enough 
to  have  the  actress  Gladys  wading  around  among  our 
pots  and  pans;  and  Beechey,  by  easy  processes  of 
gradation,  returned  to  white  folk  with  but  a  slight 
deviation  in  an  effort  to  secure  an  East  Indian.  She 
had  heard  about  him— a  man  of  excessive  pride  who 
had  been  fighting  with  an  English  regiment,  and  re- 
fused to  go  home  until  he  could  return  with  fifty 
pounds.  A  desire  to  earn  fifty  pounds  was  his  only 
qualification  for  being  a  ''general,"  so  far  as  I  could 
find  out.  But  Beechey  said  East  Indians  could  do 
anything,  and  she  knew  now  why  she  had  been  im- 
pelled to  buy  so  much  Indian  meal.  I  listened  to  her, 
although  I  knew  perfectly  well  that  she  wanted  a 
Mohanmiedan  in  her  household  so  that  she  could  go 
marketing  up  the  King's  Road  with  him  stalking  along 
a  pace  behind  her,  very  much  enturbaned.  She  told 
me  a  number  of  times  he  had  a  turban.  I  could  hear 
her  saying  to  the  fishmonger,  ''Give  the  kippers  to 
my  Indian  servant."  Still,  we  might  have  had  him 
if  he  had  not  discovered  at  the  place  he  was  then  oc- 
cupying fifty  pounds  all  in  a  lump  under  a  mattress, 

182 


AN  AIVIERICAN'S  LONDON 

and,  his  noble  ambitions  realized,  he .  returned  sur- 
reptitiously to  his  far  home. 

After  these  lost  motions  I  revisited  the  registry, 
said  a  few  short  words  over  the  poor  exchange  of 
Gladys  for  twenty-two  shillings  and  sixpence,  and  was 
then  conducted  into  a  cubicle  to  meet  Mrs.  Baines. 
I  liked  Mrs.  Baines  from  the  start,  and  I  hke  her  now. 
She  had  a  dying  husband  in  a  sanatorium,  a  growing 
daughter  who  probably  ate  a  good  deal,  and  a  very 
fine  letter  from  an  aircraft  factory  where  she  had 
worked  during  the  war.  She  also  had  pre-war  references 
when  she  worked  as  a  general.  She  did  not  mind  being 
a  general  again,  she  said  they  must  all  come  to  it 
once  more,  and  she  did  not  wish  to  draw  her  out-of- 
work  donation  any  longer  than  was  necessary.  She 
wanted  a  pound  a  week,  and,  to  look  at  her,  was 
worth  it. 

I  then  began  making  mistakes.  I  began  conniving 
ways  for  her  to  earn  more  money  than  the  pound  a 
week,  which  she  admitted  would  barely  suffice.  I 
wished  to  introduce  innovations  to  her  advantage 
into  a  life  that  had  been  circumscribed  for  centuries. 
How  she  could  remain  so  intelligent,  with  all  those 
years  of  conformed  views,  was  probably  the  most 
astonishing  thing  about  her.  But  of  course,  in  my 
violent  desire  to  make  a  woman  of  her  evident  in- 
telligence comfortable,  I  refused  to  take  that  into 
consideration.  I  wanted  to  make  her  over  for  her 
own  good  at  one  fell  swoop. 

She  wished  to  keep  a  room  or  two  somewhere,  so 
as  to  maintain  a  home  for  her  daughter,  and  I  then 
suf^gested  that  she  take  two  days  off  a  week  for  my 
\v  indry,  returning  to  her  home  after  breakfast.  I 
would  pay  her  extra  for  this,  and  she  could  be  more 

13  1S3 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

with  her  child.  But  a  frightened  look  came  into  her 
face.  Of  course  she  would  like  to  be  with  her  daugh- 
ter, and  she  had  always  done  her  own  washing,  but 
she  had  never  washed  for  any  one  else.  She  said  it 
was  unusual. 

The  idea  was  dismissed — ^hurriedly.  But  the  inter- 
view ended  in  an  arrangement  for  another  one,  at 
which  daughter  was  to  be  present.  My  busy  mind 
went  on  planning  for  daughter's  welfare — a  young 
girl  shouldn't  be  left  alone  too  much — and  in  a  burst 
of  hospitality  I  suggested  that  they  both  make  their 
home  with  me.  While  I  could  read  further  confusion 
in  her  eyes,  Mrs.  Baines  was  also  pleased.  It  would 
save  room  rent,  and  in  exchange  for  the  girl's  food 
she  could  make  a  pretense  of  sewing  for  me.  I  in- 
sisted upon  being  business-like.  Mrs.  Baines,  exer- 
cising the  restraint  I  should  have  possessed,  asked  me 
first  to  look  at  the  girl — nothing  should  be  decided 
upon  quickly,  she  said.  She  did  not  say  that  she  really 
wished  her  daughter  to  give  me  the  ''once-over," 
and  my  brain  was  so  reeling  with  happiness  over  the 
acquisition  of  a  working  housekeeper  that  I  forbore 
to  be  impatient  over  the  delay.  I  would  have  had  her 
move  in  the  next  day,  baggage,  daughter,  and — piano. 

I  did  not  tell  the  landlady  that  my  housekeeper 
was  going  to  bring  a  piano,  and  I  kept  peeping  into 
Gladys's  pennant-decorated  room  to  see  if j  the  bed 
could  possibly  accommodate  two  people.  If  it 
couldn't,  they  could  have  my  wider  one,  moving  it 
down  every  night  when  the  landlady  wasn't  looking. 
I  simply  was  not  going  to  give  up  Mrs.  Baines. 

Yet  I  did  lose  her.  Daughter  was  as  bouncing  as 
I  feared  she  would  be,  and  would  undoubtedly  eat 
the  seventeen  shillings'  worth  of  food  which  Mrs. 

184 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

Wren  said  her  keep  would  come  to.  She  also  had  a 
good  deal  of  manner — much  more  than  I  had — the 
kind  that  is  acquired  from  sitting  on  a  piano-stool 
while  her  mother  worked  for  her.  But  I  could  see 
that  she  was  the  apple  of  this  mother's  eye,  and  that 
she  would  undoubtedly  be  contented  to  stay  when 
piano  and  girl  were  once  firmly  wedged  into  their 
quarters.  It  was  my  fond  belief  that  if  the  movers 
ever  got  the  piano  down  the  basement  stairs  it  could 
never  be  taken  up  again — they  would  have  to  stay. 
Still,  I  did  not  wish  to  appear  too  lavish,  and  I  thought 
it  well  at  this  second  interview  to  admit  to  Mrs, 
Baines  that  we  were  economical,  although  artists. 
For  instance,  we  did  not  always  care  for  a  joint  for 
dinner — even  on  a  Sunday. 

''Not  a  joint  for  Sunday!"  Mrs.  Baines  echoed. 

I  should  have  stopped  there.    I  already  knew  that 

Mrs.  Wren  and  the  other  dressers  gathered  together 

on  Monday  evenings  to  discuss  the  merits  of  the 

joint  they  had  the  day  before,  and  the  difficulty  of 

getting  it  on  Saturday.     The  httlest  girl's  dresser 

had  a  fearful  time  with  her  joints,  and  admitted  that 

the  last  one  under  discussion  must  have  been  a  cut 

from  some  wild  beast.    Another  night  I  learned  that 

the  wife  of  the  property-man  had  been  utterly  unable 

to  secure  anything  but  a  rabbit.     It  had  been  sold 

with  its  head  off,  which  was  against  the  law,  but  it 

was    "tike-it-or-leave-it"    with    the   butchers    these 

days,  and  she  did  "tike"  it.    Yet,  being  a  woman  of 

spirit,  she  had  carried  it  no  farther  than  the  first 

constable,  who  had  pronounced  it  to  be  a  cat.    Mrs. 

Wren  lived  across  from  the  butcher's,  and  said  people 

at  one  time  had  stood  all  Friday  night  in  line  waiting 

to  get  the  best  cuts  for  the  Sunday  dinner.    Yet  here 

isr, 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

was  I,  in  the  face  of  all  this  precedent,  teUing  my  gem, 
Mrs.  Baines,  I  did  not  insist  upon  a  joint,  and — yes,  I 
said  it — could  she  cook  tripe? 

I  remember  distinctly  her  reply.  She  said,  with  per- 
fect control,  that  tripe  and  onions  made  a  very  nice 
dish.  She  did  not  lie  down  on  the  floor  and  scream,  or 
in  any  way  suggest  that  I  was  not  acting  the  lady. 
So  I  frivoled  along  through  my  taste  for  kidneys, 
liver,  brains,  and  other  viscera,  quite  blind  to  the  fact 
that  Mrs.  Baines  was  receding  from  me  as  I  spoke. 
I  must  admit  I  had  no  premonition  of  a  catastrophe 
on  the  following  morning.  I  had  just  told  Gladys 
that  I  was  getting  in  a  housekeeper  when  a  note  was 
handed  to  me.  The  note  was  on  robin's-egg-blue 
paper,  and  I  broke  it  open  languidly,  with  that  lack 
of  enthusiasm  one  shows  over  notes  from  friends  not 
housekeepers.  But  it  was  a  very  civil  note  from  Mrs. 
Baines  to  the  effect  that,  on  reconsideration,  she  had 
decided  not  to  accept  the  situation. 

It  was  a  matinee  day,  but  I  flew  to  the  registry 
office  with  Mrs.  Baines's  note  in  my  hands.  Yet  I 
did  not  have  to  show  it,  for  my  gem  and  the  blonde 
had  evidently  got  together  immediately  upon  my  de- 
parture.   The  blonde  was  very  condescending: 

"Well,  madam,  you  said  you  wanted  the  best  and 
I  secured  the  best  for  you.  Yet  you  asked  the  best 
to  cook  tripe." 

"And  why  shouldn't  I?"  I  roared  back.  "The 
French  are  the  finest  cooks  in  the  world,  and  they 
make  a  delicacy  of  tripe.  The  Anglo-Saxons  are  the 
worst,  yet  they  swoon  at  the  mention  of  the  word." 

But  there  was  nothing  more  to  be  said,  and  no  use 

in  seeking  farther  for  a  servant  in  return  for  my 

twenty-two  shilUngs  and  sixpence.    I  was  the  tripe- 

186 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

woman  in  that  office.  I  had  forgotten  that  it  had  a 
standard,  no  matter  how  false.  I  was  low,  and  no- 
body would  work  for  me. 

As  usual,  I  flung  myself  upon  the  mercies  of  Mrs. 
Wren,  who  was  all  indignation  over  the  heartlessness 
of  women  who  didn't  care  for  a  good  home  when  it 
was  offered  them.  If  Mrs.  Wren  hadn't  "Dadda" 
(Mr.  Wren)  and  httle  Bit  (the  young  Wren  bird)  and 
Granny  (the  great-aunt),  she  would  come  to  me  her- 
self, and  look  upon  it  as  "a  honor."  Having  these 
three  appurtenances  and  a  small  nest  to  look  after, 
she  bethought  herself  of  a  far-removed  cousin  who 
was  doing  the  whole  work  of  a  house  with  many  stairs 
for  the  reason  that  her  employer  would  permit  her 
to  keep  with  her  her  little  fatherless  child  of  six. 

The  little  girl  was  all  she  had,  but  before  the  war 
she  had  a  husband  and  "a,  little  business."  Yet  he 
had  "joined  up,"  in  spite  of  the  excuse  of  the  little 
business  and  the  new  baby,  and  after  he  was  dead  the 
business  grew  smaller  and  smaller,  winked  out  alto- 
gether, and  the  mother  went  out  to  service.  She  had 
great  difficulty  in  securing  a  position,  as  no  one  seemed 
to  want  soldiers'  widows  and  soldiers'  orphans  to- 
gether, except  myself.  And  she  did  not  find  a  place 
until  she  would  accept  the  work  ordinarily  done  by 
two  women,  yet  with  the  dole  of  one. 

Mrs.  Wren  gave  up  her  dinner  between  the  shows 
one  day  to  go  to  Vauxhall  and  offer  her  a  home  with 
me  (but  I  would  not  give  in  an  inch.  My  last  words 
were,  "On  condition  that  she  will  cook  tripe").  And 
the  widow  accepted  the  place  gladly.  She  was  to  come 
to  the  dressing-room  to  talk  it  over  in  a  night  or  two; 
in  the  mean  time  I  walked  around  to  the  London 
County  Council  school  near  by  our  Chelsea  home 

187 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

to  see  if  they  would  receive  so  small  an  infant,  and  if 
not,  would  they  make  an  exception  for  a  soldier's 
orphan.  One  of  our  American  novelists  was  with  me, 
a  man  of  such  profound  mentality  that  I  had  been  a 
little  worried  over  his  prospective  visits  at  the  maison- 
nette for  fear  I  could  not  talk  up  to  his  standard. 

But  he  found  the  hired-girl  subject  as  engrossing 
as  did  I  (will  probably  make  a  good  deal  more  money 
out  of  it),  was  interested  in  the  L.  C.  C.  school,  which 
is  making  fine  effort  toward  manual  and  domestic- 
science  training,  and  ended  the  day  very  pleasantly 
by  cutting  newspapers  into  strips  and  twisting  them 
into  papers,  that  we  might  economize  on  matches, 
since  we  could  not  on  cooks.  I  speak  of  these  homely 
amusements  for  the  benefit  of  other  hostesses  who 
may  have  great  writers  within  their  gates.  If  you 
haven't  ideas  with  which  to  entertain  them,  keep  on 
hand  a  set  of  kindergarten  tools  or  a  child's  clay- 
modeling  outfit;  don't  talk  to  them,  and  they  will 
look  vaguely  back  upon  the  evening  as  one  of  keen 
intellectual  enjoyment. 

I  can  recall  but  one  distinguished  visitor  in  our 
small  house  who  seemed  to  have  had  a  better  time 
purely  by  listening  to  my  conversation.  He  was  an 
Englishman  whose  name  strikes  us  with  a  thrill  of 
promised  pleasure  when  we  see  it  looking  up  from  a 
table  of  contents  in  a  magazine;  one  of  those  men 
whose  minds  we  Americans  have  known  for  years, 
but  of  whose  private  life  we  know  nothing  at  all. 
At  least  I  didn't  until  he  went  away.  He  was 
Beechey's  friend,  and  while  she  was  below-fetairs, 
licking  Gladys  into  a  clean  apron  for  tea,  he  and  I 
were  amiably  discussing  the  arts  and  the  comparative 
social  value  of  men  and  women  allied  to  them.  Actors 

188 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

we  dismissed  with  a  wave  of  the' hand,  they  were  too 
impermanent  in  their  homes  and  their  relationships; 
writers  we  approved  of,  but  put  aside  as  too  insist- 
ently brainy  for  close  companionship;  and  the  palm 
for  modesty,  amiability,  and  general  friendliness  went 
to  the  man  who  draws  and  paints.  We  did  not  touch 
upon  musicians  until  the  others  of  the  beaux  arts  had 
been  reviewed,  and  I  swear  the  man  was  just  as  ready 
as  I  to  assert  that  their  beautiful  one-sided  intellects 
did  not  make  for  peaceful  friendships.  However, 
elated  over  my  success  in  holding  his  attention  with- 
out the  aid  of  kindergarten  utensils,  I  grew  flippant 
in  my  disposal  of  these  people  who  bring  more  love- 
liness into  our  humdrum  existence  than  any  other  of 
God's  creatures. 

"They  are  the  lowest  form  of  life,"  I  completed, 
"next  to  earth-worms." 

This  made  such  a  great  success  with  him — for  he 
greeted  it  with  roars  of  laughter,  and  very  few  English- 
men laugh  at  me  a  great  deal — that  I  could  not  for- 
bear to  repeat  to  Beechey,  upon  his  departure,  my 
little  mot.    She  looked  at  me  mousily. 

"Splendid!"  she  encouraged. 

"Well,  he  laughed  a  great  deal." 

"He  would.  His  wife  is  one  of  the  finest  musicians 
in  Europe." 

I  shall  continue  to  read  that  man's  stories  with 
pleasure,  but  I  shall  always  feel  that  he  has  wrenched 
the  plot  from  some  confiding  stranger  whom  he  has 
charmed  by  his  close  attention  into  abandoned 
revelations. 

To  work  back  to  Mrs.  Wren's  cousin:  she  called 
at  the  dressing-room  according  to  arrangement,  her 
kind  mother's  face  beaming  over  being  wanted,  yet 

189 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

honestly  confessing  that  she  had  been  prevailed  upon 
to  remain.  The  lady  for  whom  she  worked  had  used 
an  adroit  argument  to  keep  her  on.  She  had  not  offered 
her  more  money  or  less  work,  but  she  claimed  she 
was  too  devoted  to  the  child  to  let  her  go.  ''She  likes 
'er;  she  likes  'er,"  reiterated  the  mother,  and  went 
back  to  climbing  stairs  with  scuttles  of  coal,  cooking 
and  serving  dinner-parties,  and  pressing  out  morning 
gowns  at  midnight. 

I  might  have  burst  into  a  declaration  of  love  for 
the  little  girl,  whom  I  had  never  seen,  as  a  counterfoil 
and  delicately  insinuated  that  I  would  mention  her 
in  my  will,  but  that  the  American  novelist  had  stopped 
making  tapers  long  enough  to  examine  the  rooms  I 
was  offering  a  mother  and  a  child  of  six,  and  had 
agreed  with  me  that  it  was  a  poor  place  for  developing 
the  growth  of  anything  beyond  the  sprouting  of 
onions. 

My  American  friend — for  friend  he  became — was  a 
real  Socialist,  not  a  parlor  one,  and  occasionally  went 
to  the  basements  of  life  to  see  how  things  actually 
were.  There  are  a  great  many  Socialists  in  the  world, 
and  the  ablest  minds  now  lean  toward  a  tender  con- 
cern in  the  plain  people.  Yet  I  do  not  find  among 
the  men  who  write  of  these  things  any  great  practical 
demonstration  of  the  theories  which  they  so  ably 
exploit  in  print.  They  like  good  food  and  good  ser- 
vice, and  are  impatient  if  it  is  not  good.  The  subject 
may  be  too  vast  to  admit  of  individual  treatment,  yet 
it  seems  to  my  raw,  Middle- West  understanding,  if 
the  individual  looked  after  the  rights  of  the  little 
people  about  him,  that  it  would  be  more  direct  than 
disposing  of  the  subject  en  bloc,  and  the  result  would 

be  more  immediate. 

190 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

We  dined  delightfully  one  Sunday  night  in  a  very 
warm  house  whose  hostess  was,  it  goes  without  say- 
ing, an  American,  albeit  an  expatriate,  and  the  sub- 
ject turned  upon  the  housing  problem.  There  is  a 
growing  belief  throughout  the  world,  at  present,  that 
a  large  family  should  occupy  more  than  two  rooms, 
but  to  my  surprise  those  most  inimical  to  the  effort 
that  night  at  table  were  a  man  and  woman  whose 
names  are  known  to  the  literary  world  for  great 
daring  and  advanced  thought.  All  they  advanced  that 
night  were  archaic  ideas.  The  woman  novelist  con- 
tended that  the  poor  didn't  want  but  two  rooms; 
if  they  had  more  than  that,  they  took  in  lodgers. 
They  simply  didn't  like  better  conditions. 

"But  don't  you  see,"  I  broke  out,  in  my  anxious 
American  voice,  ''we  would  still  be  at  the  Stone  Age 
if  all  of  us  had  remained  content?  Some  one  must 
forge  ahead,  find  himself  more  comfortable,  and  gen- 
erously endeavor  to  make  others  more  comfortable. 
The  weaker  must  be  shaped  by  the  stronger.  If  the 
strong  won't  do  it — like  yourselves — who  will?" 

There  was  a  gloomy  silence,  and  I  saw  that  I  was 
too  much  in  earnest,  which  is  trying  to  a  Sunday-night 
dinner- table;  but  the  lady  novehst  lightened  up  the 
talk  a  bit  by  declaring  that  she  would  greatly  enjoy 
a  return  to  the  Stone  Age,  for  then  she  might  meet 
the  original  caveman.  She  had  always  wanted  to 
be  pulled  by  the  hair.  I  forbore  to  remind  her  that, 
from  all  accounts,  he  would  be  a  good  deal  like  her 
present  husband,  and  my  distress  was  alleviated  by 
the  aristocrat  of  the  party,  whom  my  hostess  had 
apologized  for  in  advance  as  possibly  a  dull  dinner 
companion. 

He  was  what  we  call  a  ''haw-haw  Englishman, '* 

191 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

but  he  had  estates  in  the  north  country,  where  the 
housing  situation  is  acute,  and  he  said  very  bluntly, 
without  any  haw-haw  at  all,  that  he  was  trying  hard 
to  get  his  people  into  larger  houses.  He  didn't  be- 
lieve in  brothers  and  sisters  sleeping  in  the  same 
room,  and  in  a  few  years — after  he  was  gone,  no  doubt 
— the  tenant  wouldn't  believe  in  it  either.  We  were 
all  pretty  much  the  same  under  the  skin,  he  went  on, 
yes,  even  the  skins  were  the  same.  And  since  his 
epidermis  had  learned  to  feel  better  after  a  morning 
bath,  he  was  sure  that  his  tenants  would;  it  wasn't 
so  very  long  ago  that  we  first  acknowledged  the  need 
of  tooth-paste,  but  a  man's  teeth  felt  rather  grimy 
without  the  article,  these  days,  and  teeth  were  the 
same  the  world  over.  What  was  a  luxury  soon  be- 
came a  necessity,  and  the  laborer  would  feel  that  way 
about  all  the  innovations  which  at  present  he  was 
resisting. 

It  was  quite  a  long  speech,  for  the  type  of  English- 
man that,  along  with  the  clergy,  we  always  laugh  at 
on  the  stage;  but  it  did  me  a  great  deal  of  good,  for 
here  was  a  man  whose  forefathers  had  been  barons 
and  who  may  have  used  the  whip  on  their  varlets,  yet 
he  had  wriggled  off  the  ugly  skin  of  convention  that 
still  tightly  binds  so  many  souls.  The  hostess  took 
up  the  thread  at  this  moment,  and  said  that  tooth- 
paste was  not  only  a  necessity,  but  an  article  for 
measuring  the  passing  of  time.  The  last  guest  staying 
in  her  home  had  said  that  she  would  remain  for  the 
duration  of  a  tube  of  paste;  she  found  that  two  tubes 
was  always  too  long,  and  half  a  tube  not  long  enough. 
Then,  if  I  remember  rightly,  the  soldier  in  the  party 
outlined  vast  possibilities  of  a  host  arising  in  the 
dead  of  night  to  squeeze  the  tooth-paste  of  a  guest 

m 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

whose  economy  presaged  a  long  visit.     And  so  we 
went  on  with  prattles — all  avoiding  the  war  like  mad. 

Possibly  the  real  reason  for  the  absence  of  war- 
talk  was  given  to  me  by  one  of  our  American  airmen, 
whose  work  has  been  with  the  British,  and  who  has  an 
unabounded  affection  for  them.  "The  soldier  doesn't 
talk  about  the  war/'  he  said,  "because  he  isn't  in- 
terested in  it.  The  English  soldier,  I  mean.  We  will 
be  chewing  the  rag  about  it  forever  in  America.  The 
British  are  a  fighting  people.  It's  their  tradition. 
It's  an  incident  with  them,  a  hideous  incident  which 
they  are  ready  to  forget." 

As  Beechey  and  I  walked  back  that  night,  slippers 
pattering  along  on  icy  pavements,  with  the  hope  of 
a  taxi  at  every  corner  teasing  us  on,  we  agreed  that 
there  might  be  something  in  this.  And  if  so,  it  is 
quite  possible  that  we  in  America,  an  agrarian  people 
— or  a  commercial  one,  if  you  choose — found  the  war 
much  more  horrible  than  did  our  allies.  I  don't  mean 
our  participation  in  it,  but  the  eternal  consciousness 
that  it  was  going  on.  And  since  it  was  horrible  to  us, 
it  may  not  have  been  entirely  apathy  which  prevented 
us  from  hurling  ourselves  into  it  at  an  earlier  period. 

A  comfortable  conclusion,  at  any  rate,  although  I 
should  not  care  to  advance  it  at  a  London  dinner- 
party. They  would  probably  not  do  anything  but 
look  at  me,  but  the  more  the  English  look  the  more 
I  wonder  what  is  going  on  back  of  their  amiably 
inclined  countenances.  Something  is  going  on  back 
of  my  face  all  the  time,  things  I  would  never  give 
expression  to,  although,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  if  the 
English  could  see  back  of  it  they  would  find  an  emo- 
tional fondness  growing  ever  stronger  the  longer  I 

am  among  them  and  witness  the  phlegm  with  which 

193 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

they  accept  their  financial  distresses  and  labor  up- 
heavals. But,  since  it  is  emotional,  I  know  it  would 
embarrass  them  if  I  converted  my  fondness  into 
speech,  so  I  go  on  living  a  restrained,  double-faced 
existence. 

They  would  find  also  a  great  desire  on  my  part  to 
be  liked — that  is,  for  my  country  to  be  hked.  The 
individual  they  accept  over  here  for  what  he  brings 
to  them,  no  matter  his  country.  No  one  has  written 
a  better  book  on  Abraham  Lincoln  than  an  English- 
man, no  one  a  more  comprehensive  history  of  the 
American  commonwealth  than  a  Briton.  Is  it  be- 
cause we  are  new  that  an  older  civilization  en  masse 
cannot  be  entirely  in  sympathy  with  us?  Must  they 
necessarily,  from  the  fact  that  they  are  ancient,  limit 
their  admiration  to  what  is  not  foreign  to  them? 
"I  prefer  the  New  Zealanders  to  the  other  colonials," 
said  a  splendid  British  girl  who  has  been  doing  hos- 
pital work  throughout  the  war;  ''they  are  more  like 
the  English."  Why  could  she  not  have  preferred  the 
Aussies  or  the  Canadians  because  they  were  different? 

I  felt  very  lonely  coming  away  from  these  parties 
where  every  one  had  been  so  agreeable  to  me.  I  was 
new  and  green  and  an  outsider.  Perhaps  all  new 
peoples  feel  that  way,  and  I  alone  confess  it.  I  would 
determine  that  I  would  find  an  English  friend,  a 
close,  intimate  friend,  that  I  could  tell  my  secrets  to 
and  who  would  tell  me  hers.  Mrs.  Wren  was  my 
greatest  encouragement.  The  longer  she  was  with 
me  the  more  she  was  growing  to  like  us,  she  confessed. 
She  said  we  were  a  revelation  to  her!  Now  Mrs. 
Wren  stands  for  the  core  of  England.  Her  people 
have  farmed  in  one  district  for  countless  generations. 
They  pay  rent  to  an  earl,  of  whom  they  are  very 

194 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

much  ashamed.  They  wouldn't  have  him  on  their 
place!  Indeed,  he  has  no  chance  to  get  on  it,  as  his 
creditors  collect  the  rent  every  year — ''yur"  Mrs. 
Wren  pronounced  it,  with  an  accent  that  only  Eden 
Phillpotts  can  write  down. 

Mrs.  Wren,  in  time,  thawed  to  me  because  I  thawed 
to  her.  I  can  hear  you  say,  ''Of  course,  if  you  make  a 
confidante  of  a  dresser.  ..."  But  the  point  is,  she 
didn't  despise  us  the  better  she  knew  us,  and  she 
didn't  like  us  because  we  were  the  same,  but  because 
we  were  different.  I  had  to  work,  however,  for  Mrs. 
Wren's  confidence,  and  it  has  occurred  to  me  that  we 
newer  nations  do  not  work  very  hard  to  make  our- 
selves liked  or  understood.  Some  of  our  complacent 
ones  may  argue  that  it  is  not  worth  working  for, 
but  it  seems  to  me  that  the  good  opinion  of  the  world 
is  not  to  be  despised,  and  'way  down  in  the  hearts 
of  all  of  us  we  do  want  to  be  loved. 

''Comfort  me  with  apples,  for  I  am  sick  of  love," 
said  Solomon,  but  I  know  now  that  he  meant  sick 
with  love.  Solomon  was  too  wise  ever  to  be  sick  of  it. 
Yes,  every  nation  wants  to  be  loved,  and  mere  eating 
apples,  mere  going  on  being  successful  financially 
cannot  take  the  place  of  the  regard  of  other  nations. 
I  am  afraid  America  will  have  to  "make  up"  to  the 
older  peoples.  We  will  have  to  go  more  than  half- 
way. The  colonials  come  bouncing  up  to  meet  us, 
but  they  are  not  bound  by  the  cords  of  a  thousand 
years'  conservatism.  The  English  may  think  us 
rather  ridiculous  if  they  should  observe  us  lumbering 
over  obstacles  with  their  esteem  as  a  goal,  but  the 
more  I  see  of  England  the  more  I  think  it  is  worth 
the  bruising  of  the  body — ^yes,  and  of  the  spirit — to 
reach  the  winning-post. 

195 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

But  here  I  am  at  the  end  of  another  chapter  not 
only  disposing  of  the  affairs  of  the  British,  but  out- 
Uning  the  possible  future  conduct  of  the  Americans, 
and  I  began  with  tripe  and  what  it  taught  of  the 
feudal  system.  Yet  tripe  and  the  subject  in  hand  are 
analogous.  If  I  could  overcome  the  prejudice  against 
tripe,  why  can't  the  United  States  as  a  nation  over- 
come any  petty  lack  of  understanding  between  the 
Old  World  and  the  New?  By  hard  work  I  grappled 
successfully  with  the  house-heating  opposition  party; 
I  beat  the  early  attacks  upon  the  door-knocker  into 
acceptance,  and  by  resistance  introduced  offal  into 
my  household,  yet  still  remained  the  lady. 

Mrs.  Hacking,  our  new  housekeeper,  entered  iden- 
tically with  the  abasing  dish.  She  could,  would,  and 
did  cook  tripe. 


Chapter  XIII 

ONE  observes  that  the  new  housekeeper,  Mrs. 
Hacking,  embodies  Chapter  Thirteen.  Now 
that  I  look  back  upon  it,  Mrs.  Hacking  was 
thirteen  in  my  London  experience,  and  while  "ex- 
perience is  the  name  we  give  to  our  mistakes,"  we 
often  find  our  errors  to  be  exceedingly  interesting 
episodes,  as,  indeed,  I  found  Mrs.  Hacking. 

She  was  sent  in  at  the  close  of  our  early  dinner, 
from  a  twelve-shilling  registry  in  the  neighborhood. 
That  is,  it  would  cost  but  twelve  shillings  to  secure 
Mrs.  Hacking,  and,  as  the  registry  lady  suggested, 
cheap  at  the  price.  The  split  fee  was  represented  by 
this  highly  recommended  working  housekeeper,  for 
she  was  going  to  cut  everything  in  two.  I  did  not 
stipulate  at  the  moment  of  talking  her  over  in  the 
damp  httle  office  wdth  the  agent  (who  dropped  her 
"h's, "  then  added  them  on  again  with  vehemence) 
what  was  to  become  of  the  other  half  of  the  bills  that 
were  to  be  cut  in  two — whether  it  was  to  go  to  me  or 
to  Mrs.  Hacking.  The  assumption  was  that  it  would 
go  to  me,  for  the  new  housekeeper  came  of  good  people 
in  the  neighborhood,  tradesmen  in  a  small  way,  and 
therefore  Mrs.  Hacking  was  respectable.  When  we 
are  called  respectable  in  America  we  are  honest  and 
moral.  Over  here  the  Mrs.  Hackings  are  respectable 
when  they  keep  their  heads  up,  and  do  not  sing  in 

the  streets  on  the  way  home  from  parties.    Also,  I 

197 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

think,  they  must  go  in  a  saloon  bar,  not  a  public  bar, 
when  they  want  a  drink. 

We  were  immediately  inclined  toward  Mrs.  Hack- 
ing, and  wished  to  rush  her  into  service  the  next  day, 
but  restrained  ourselves  and  expressed  a  willingness 
to  begin  at  the  beginning  of  the  week,  as  respectable 
people  should.  We  had  been  endeavoring  to  con- 
sume a  ''sweet,"  as  Mrs.  Hacking  called,  which 
Gladys  had  made  all  by  herself.  Beechey  had  con- 
tended that  if  the  girl  was  left  alone  she  might  "take 
the  initiative."  She  had.  The  sweet  consisted  of 
dough,  lemon,  and  salt,  and  the  contempt  with  which 
Mrs.  Hacking  viewed  it  as  she  stood  by  our  dinner- 
table  promised  better  sweets,  even  sweet  sweets,  if 
she  came  into  our  service. 

Besides  this,  she  was  a  soldier's  widow.  Now,  though 
we  are  opposed  to  death,  a  soldier's  widow  is  more 
welcome  than  a  soldier's  daughter.  There  is  no  re- 
sisting a  widow,  especially  in  shabby  crape,  with  a 
tear  in  her  eye  which  she  bravely  refused  to  shed. 
Even  if  Gladys  had  arranged  for  the  killing  off  of  her 
father,  I  doubt  if  we  would  have  entertained  her  any 
longer.  For  the  new  applicant  possessed,  along  with 
this  attribute,  a  capability  that  was  relieving.  She 
knew  how  to  market,  run  a  house,  cook,  and  serve. 
She  volunteered  that  she  would  wash  up  little  things 
like  handkerchiefs  and  fine  linen,  and  I  was  not  to 
worry  about  ''nothink."  She  wanted  a  pound  a  week 
for  all  this,  and  ''will  serve  you  faithfully,  madam." 
She  did  not  say  "moddam,"  but  I  had  given  that  up 
long  ago.  Her  very  last  words  at  the  door  were  com- 
forting ones.  She  said  she  had  plenty  of  aprons  of 
her  own,  would  sleep  in  her  father's  house  as  that 
would  save  me  bed  linen,  and  knew  three  ways  of 

198 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

cooking  tripe.  I  reeled  down  to  the  theater  and  re- 
ported to  Mrs.  Wren,  who  was  as  happy  as  I.  She 
was  happier,  for  I  didn't  tell  Mrs.  Wren  that  there 
was  a  fly  in  the  ointment.  Strictly  speaking,  it  was 
not  a  fly  or  an  ointment.  It  was  the  mouth  of  Mrs. 
Hacking.    Subtly,  very  subtly,  it  gave  me  a  warning. 

Without  in  any  way  referring  to  this  warning, 
which  I  was  refusing  to  take,  I  talked  with  the  littlest 
girl  that  night  of  the  way  the  Creator  has  of  making 
features  so  that  they  display  the  sinister  character- 
istics of  the  soul.  I  remarked  how  hard  it  was  that 
the  woman  with  a  mean  little  mouth,  or  the  man 
with  no  lobe  to  his  ears,  or  the  child  with  the  evasive 
eyes,  must  be  shunned  by  mankind,  when  the  un- 
fortunate possessors  had  nothing  whatever  to  do  with 
the  making  of  mouths  and  ears  and  eyes,  or  the  bad 
spirits  within. 

The  littlest  girl,  who  has  so  much  wisdom  that  I 
don't  see  where  she  stores  it,  replied  that  those  creat- 
ures are  unfortunate,  but,  since  the  laws  of  life  are 
for  the  masses,  she  supposed  God  protects  His  people 
as  well  as  He  can  against  the  subnormal  or  the  ab- 
normal by  reflecting  in  the  outward  formation  the 
moral  structure  within.  She  thought  the  most  un- 
fortunate people  of  all  were  those  who  couldn't 
recognize  these  little  danger-flags,  and  went  on  en- 
tangling their  lives  in  misspent  relationships;  also 
those —  She  didn't  get  any  farther,  as  her  cue  came, 
and  she  dashed  on  the  stage  in  an  immoral  evening 
wrap,  laughing  lightly  as  one  always  does  when  late 
for  a  cue. 

But  I  knew  what  she  meant,  and  I  was  glad  she 
entered  the  scene  when  she  did,  for  she  certainly 
would  have  continued  the  subject,  as  she  was  very 

14  199 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

thorough,  to  the  point  of  anathematizing  those  human 
beings  who  are  good  pickers  in  Hfe,  yet  pick  frivol- 
ously even  so.  Now  I  have  but  two  gifts  in  life.  I 
can  tell  whether  the  actor  is  good,  or  the  part  he  is 
playing  is  good,  and  I  can  read  character  as  I  can  read 
''Will  the  cat  catch  the  rat?"  It  is  none  of  my  own 
accomplishing.  Lacking  a  silver  spoon  to  be  born 
with,  my  fairy  godmother  skirmished  around  for  this 
gift  of  protection.  I  am  glad  I  have  it,  and  I  would 
be  gladder  if  I  would  heed  it,  but  the  maisonnette 
was  so  in  need  of  immediate  care  that  I  turned  down 
the  flag,  as  the  taxi-driver  does  nowadays  when  he 
sees  me  anxiously  approaching  him.  I  didn't  heed  it, 
yet  I  knew  that  Mrs.  Hacking  was  mealy-mouthed. 

It  was  the  very  next  morning  that  a  note  was 
brought  in  to  my  bedside,  a  very  civil  note  such  as 
Mrs.  Baines  would  have  written,  but  this  time  it 
was  Mrs.  Hacking,  to  the  effect  that  upon  reconsid- 
eration she  did  not  think  it  wise  to  come  to  me. 
Gladys  brought  in  the  message,  as  she  had  brought 
my  discharge  from  the  service  of  Mrs.  Baines,  and  it 
passed  through  my  mind  that  she  might  write  these 
things  herself  so  that  she  could  remain  in  a  pennant 
room  and  go  to  as  many  dances  as  she  liked. 

Sympathy  for  Gladys  had  long  since  disappeared. 
She  was  spending  her  wages  on  extra  jazz  steps,  she 
had  a  very  good  fur  coat,  and  had  loaned  a  diamond 
ring  to  a  gentleman  to  wear  on  a  visit  to  Scotland. 
I  knew  this,  as  she  asked  me  if  I  could  think  of  any 
good  way  of  getting  it  back.  And  this  exhibition  of 
naivete  alone  would  preclude  any  scheme  involving 
the  use  of  a  part  of  her  body  held  in  restraint  by  her 
black-velvet  fillet. 

We  were  always  dismissing  Gladys,  then  suggesting 

200 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

that  she  stay  on  a  little  longer.  At  first  she  used  to 
pack  her  box,  but  at  the  Mrs.  Hacking  episode  she 
made  no  effort  to  dismantle  her  apartment — ''The 
boy  cried,  'Wolf!  Wolf!'  and  there  was  no  wolf." 
Yet  I  did  not  ask  her  to  remain  upon  the  reception 
of  this  letter.  I  carried  the  oil  stove  over  to  my 
typewriter  and,  thawing  out  rapidly,  sent  a  note  to 
Mrs.  Hacking  raising  her  wages  to  five-and- twenty 
shillings  a  week,  on  condition  she  had  no  objections 
to  tripe.  By  nightfall  the  reply  came  that— on  recon- 
sideration— once  more — she  found  she  could  accept 
the  position.  And  I  tried  not  to  think  of  her  mealy 
mouth,  but  of  the  tremendous  resourcefulness  of  a 
woman  who  could  "up"  me  like  that. 

Beechey  was  sympathetic  over  Mrs.  Hacking's 
case.  She  said  soldiers'  widows  frequently  had  terrible 
obligations:  crape  was  dear — all  that  expense  of  get- 
ting a  pension — and  the  high  cost  of  selling  the  piano 
—and  she  knew  it  would  make  for  happiness  in  the 
home  to  be  doing  the  right  thing  by  one  who  had 
suffered  in  the  war.  I  suppose  she  meant  by  that 
Mrs.  Hacking's  happiness.  Yet  I  saw  a  mean  little 
advantage  in  paying  the  extra  five  shillings.  Like 
Simon  Legree,  I  could  say  to  Mrs.  Hacking,  "Now 
you  belong  to  me."  And  while  Uncle  Tom — I  mean 
Mrs.  Hacking — might  reply,  "No,  massa,  mah  body 
may  belong  to  you,  but  mah  soul  belongs  to  Gawd," 
I  could  then  respond  that  her  material  forces  were  all 
I  wanted.  And  Simon  Legree  could  have  said  it,  too, 
if  he  had  only  been  clever  enough,  thus  turning  the 
tables  on  Uncle  Tom  and  giving  the  play  a  different 
ending.  I  was  not  going  to  overwork  Mrs.  Hacking 
physically,  but  for  those  extra  five  shillings  I  was 
going  to  })e  an  unhampered  American,  saying  what  I 

201 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

pleased,  eating  what  I  pleased,  and  indulging  in  all 
the  vagaries  of  my  race.  My  instinct — the  same  in- 
stinct that  had  whispered  ''mealy-mouthed" — told 
me  that  Mrs.  Hacking  would  stick  it  for  the  extra  pay. 

I  began  on  the  morning  of  her  arrival.  Gladys,  by 
the  present  of  several  extra  shillings,  had  been  per- 
suaded to  leave.  She  accepted  the  gift,  but  it  was 
characteristic  of  this  Canadian  girl  that  she  left  three 
halfpence  which  she  owed  me  on  the  kitchen-table, 
along  with  the  dirty  dinner-dishes.  It  was  not  thiev- 
ing, according  to  her  training,  to  leave  the  dishes, 
but  money  she  would  not  steal.  And  I  did  have  a 
pang  of  concern  upon  her  departure,  for  I  don't  know 
what  is  going  to  become  of  that  girl — of  girls  like  her. 
In  a  burst  of  confidence  we  learned  from  her  that 
she  was  not  only  one  soldier's  daughter,  but  the  daugh- 
ter of  two  soldiers.  Her  father  had,  in  some  easy 
fashion,  married  a  Birmingham  ''trollop"  (I  quote  the 
stepdaughter),  since  entering  the  war,  which  had  so 
enraged  the  mother  that  she,  in  turn,  had  married  a 
"limey,"  which  is  the  American  doughboy's  name  for 
the  lime-drinking  Tommy,  and  the  father — the  first 
father— was  not  going  to  take  any  of  them  back 
to  Canada — ever. 

She  was  not  despondent,  however,  and  refused  to 
enter  the  school  for  domestic  science,  where  we  were 
willing  to  place  her,  as  she  also  expected  to  make  a 
marriage — or  two— no  doubt  hoping  to  begin  with 
the  gentleman  who  had  taken  her  diamond  ring  to 
see  the  sights  in  Scotland.  I  was  glad  to  be  quit  of 
her.  But— I  find  myself  still  watching  for  her  anx- 
iously when  I  go  down  the  Strand,  yet  praying  that 
I  will  not  see  her  prowling  there — the  terrible  aftci- 

math  of  the  war. 

202 


AN  AMERICANOS  LONDON 

\A^ile  I  have  said  that  Mrs.  Hacking  came  in  with 
the  tripe,  I  was  wrong,  as  the  tripe  I  had  already 
soaking  for  the  hmcheon  dish.  Mrs.  Hacking  came 
in  with  a  ton  of  coal.  She  came  in  and  the  coal 
remained  outside  for  further  orders.  Both  were  wel- 
come. I  had  been  buying  scuttles  from  my  landlady, 
and  the  coal  cellar  was  at  the  moment  as  empty  as 
the  kitchen.  The  new  housekeeper  did  exactly  what 
I  would  have  asked  of  her.  She  drew  back  the  cur- 
tains to  the  window  with  a  fine  clash  of  brass  rings, 
and  advanced  to  my  bedside. 

''Good  morning,  madam.  The  coal-man  is  here. 
What  shall  I  do  for  him,  madam?" 

I  then  apphed  the  acid  test  to  Mrs.  Hacking.  "Kiss 
him,"  was  my  order. 

She  smiled— it  was  all  right — she  smiled.  ''They 
are  welcome,  aren't  they,  madam?"  And  without 
kissing  him,  Mrs.  Hacking  saw  that  the  coal  was 
properly  disposed.  She  brought  in  my  coffee  and  toast, 
beautifully  brown  and  hot  and  buttered.  She  came 
in  later,  in  a  white  apron,  and  laid  the  fire.  She  ap- 
proved of  the  fire-lighter.  She  liked  inventions.  Her 
brother  was  an  inventor.  He  was  inventing  a  geyser 
— she  paused — the  invention  cost  money.  She  went 
out,  3'et  I  was  too  at  ease  with  the  revivifying  effect 
of  Mrs.  Hacking's  brisk  capability  to  observe  that  she 
was  hitching  me  up  somehow  or  other  with  the  in- 
vention— that  she  was  inventing  something  herself. 

Perhaps  every  woman  does  not  suffer  the  fatigue 
that  comes  to  me  when  in  continual  association  with 
the  inept  in  life.  If  I  were  more  able  myself,  I  could 
possibly  better  withstand  this  strain  on  my  spinal 
column.  It  is  a  very  physical  thing  with  me,  re- 
solving itself  into  a  backache  that  does  not  come  from 

203 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

any  material  burden.  And  I  must  confess  that,  from 
the  arrival  of  Mrs.  Hacking  until  her — my  departure, 
there  was  an  easing  of  the  loads  I  seemed  to  be  carry- 
ing. The  load  of  playing  an  emotional  role,  the  load 
of  writing  (or  the  business  of  endless  observing,  that 
one  may  write),  the  load  of  talking  to  strangers,  of 
striving  for  English  friendships,  and  all  the  little 
packets  w^e  carry  as  we  make  our  pilgrim's  progress 
through  the  world.  To  revert  to  American  slang, 
whatever  hideous  shortcomings  Mrs.  Hacking  pos- 
sessed, I  must  ''hand  it"  to  her  for  an  able  brain  that, 
among  its  busy  machinations,  employed  itself,  as  well, 
in  keeping  me  comfortable. 

What  perplexes  me  about  the  Mrs.  Hackings  of 
life  is  the  application  of  their  excellent  minds  to  dis- 
honest gains,  when  they  could  realize  greater  benefits 
by  playing  straight.  A  man  with  an  amazing  head 
for  figures  avoids  the  many  businesses  where  his 
talent  would  make  him  valuable,  preferring  the  pre- 
carious living  of  a  gambler.  One  with  the  gift  of 
expression  talks  witless  widows  into  empty  schemes 
for  investing  money,  when  the  same  adherence  to  one 
good  scheme  would  yield  him  a  better  return.  A 
woman  with  a  sense  of  organization  often  flits  from 
one  shady  enterprise  to  another,  and  frequently  ends 
in  the  courts.  I  am  sure  that  sums  accrued  from  the 
begging  letters  which  come  to  our  stage-door  would  be 
greater  if  the  time  spent  writing  them  was  applied 
to  an  honest  industry.  Particularly  in  London  the 
actor  is  subjected  to  long,  carefully  written  appeals, 
and  as  these  letters  go  to  many  stage-doors,  and  hun- 
dreds of  actors,  I  doubt  whether  the  response  covers 
the  postage.  Perhaps  it  is  a  kink  in  their  brains  that 
is  not  of  their  own  twisting — part  of  the  abnormality 

204 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

of  life  which,  if  it  predominated,  would  become  the 
normal. 

Personally,  I  am  glad  it  is  not  normal,  for  I  should 
then  be  one  of  the  twisted  ones,  working  dully  for  a 
living,  with  all  my  earnings  going  rightly  to  the  Mrs. 
Hackings.  Four  pounds  of  my  money  went  over  to 
Mrs,  Hacking  before  the  first  week  was  out,  in  response 
to  a  letter  under  my  coffee-pot  on  my  immaculate 
breakfast  tray.    But  who  could  withstand: 

Dear  Madam, — I  hope  sincerely  you  will  forgive  the  asking — 
your  not  knowing  me  very  long — but  I  wanted  to  know  if  you 
could  advance  some  of  my  wages,  and  stop  it,  say,  ten  shillings  or 
fifteen  shillings  a  week.  I  am  in  need  of  some  many  little  things 
which  cost  quite  a  lot  when  you  sum  them  up.  My  boots  will 
take  all  this  week's  money.  I  was  silly  to  lend  my  brother  all 
my  little  capital  for  his  invention,  because  I  have  now  to  wait  for 
it,  and  I  find  that  with  a  few  lbs  I  could  do  so  much  better  than 
getting  them  week  by  week.  You  do  not  do  so  well.  And  I  feel 
happy  with  you  and  will  do  my  best  to  make  you  a  good  servant. 
I  hope  you  will  excuse  the  hberty. 

A.  Hacking. 

Had  I  possessed  any  of  those  qualities  with  which 
the  kinky-minded  ones  are  endowed,  I  might  speedily 
have  recognized  that  Mrs.  Hacking  was  satisfied  with 
her  place  and  wished  to  secure  it  by  an  advance. 
I  would  have  seen  clearly  that  I  would  be  obliged  to 
keep  her  on,  in  order  to  get  my  money  back,  no  mat- 
ter how  she  behaved.  I  would  have  known  without 
any  further  flagging  of  danger-signals  that  a  mealy- 
mouthed  one  who  had  so  read  my  character  as  to 
have  struck  for  a  raise  in  wages  before  her  wages  began, 
and  now  begged  for  a  larger  sum  to  insure  those 
wages,  would  not  cease  to  manipulate  further  the 
contents  of  my  pui'se. 

205 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

But  I  saw  none  of  these  things,  for  I  am  of  those 
indolent  minds,  of  those  weak  ones  who,  once  warmed 
and  fed  and  clean,  will  suffer  no  abrasion  of  that  life 
by  the  introduction  of  stern  principles.  I  am  not 
sure  but  that  we  are  the  most  dangerous  of  all  to  a 
society  already  suffering  from  tolerance.  Indolently 
I  gave  Mrs.  Hacking  the  four  pounds,  pretending  to 
myself  that  this  was  good  business  for  me.  I  had  now 
even  a  greater  hold  on  her,  something,  of  course,  that 
she  had  not  taken  into  consideration.  She  would  be 
obliged  to  stay  on  to  work  out  the  loan! 

After  all,  she  was  worth  it,  for  of  what  would  my 
thirteenth  chapter  consist  if  otherwise?  Then  there 
were  the  purely  English  dinners,  and  my  pride  as 
she  would  serve  the  guests  the  sauces:  ''Sage  and 
onions,  sir?  Sage  and  onions,  madam?"  Then  the 
moment,  breathless  to  all  of  us,  before  the  savory 
came  up,  after  we  had  consumed  our  sweet.  The 
guesses  we  would  adventure.  Sometimes  it  was  a 
dish  of  Jerusalem  artichokes,  sometimes  macaroni 
with  cheese;  once — but  at  this  I  balked — Irish  pota- 
toes. Only,  they  do  not  have  Irish  potatoes  over  here, 
or  sweet  potatoes;  they  are  white — or  yams.  The 
Creator  who  made  Englishmen  alone  knows  the  full, 
deep  meaning  of  the  savory,  yet  I  dare  to  ask  the  same 
question  of  Savarin,  who  introduced  in  the  middle  of 
a  meal  the  stomach-chilling  punch. 

As  a  method  of  protection  I  opened  accounts  with 
the  butcher,  the  baker,  the  candlestick-maker,  and 
Mrs.  Hacking  paid  the  bills  weekly.  She  also  was 
allowed  what  she  called  petty  cash  for  sundry  small 
expenditures.  It  began  petty,  but  it  grew  rapidly, 
yet  every  week  a  perfectly  balanced  ledger,  with  all 
the  expenditure  set  down,  was  handed  to  me  for  my 

206 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

inspection.  Sometimes  she  would  need  extra  money, 
for  she  would  go  over  to  Battersea  to  buy  the  joint, 
the  news  getting  around  that  pork  was  unuvsually 
good  over  there,  if — judging  by  the  price  Mrs.  Hack- 
ing paid — exceptionally  dear.  But  Mrs.  Hacking 
really  went  to  Battersea  for  me,  she  always  did  want 
me  to  have  the  best — and  herself  the  best  of  that. 
It  was  the  cutting-in-two  business  again. 

In  this  skirmishing  for  good  cuts  in  food  and  drink 
of  all  kinds  it  was  curious  how  one  district  would  have 
an  amplitude  of  one  commodity,  and  another  part  of 
London  be  entirely  without  it.  We  had  money 
stored  up  as  the  squirrel  stores  nuts,  at  various 
grocers',  actual  money  ahead  of  other  people's  cash, 
that  we  might  be  given  a  preference  for  a  bit  of  cheese. 
Yet  Mrs.  Wren  could  frequently  secure  cheese  at 
Camden  Town.  It  was  so  with  firewood.  Kensing- 
ton had  firewood,  Clapham  had  none.  Kensington 
had  all  the  logs,  hawked  about  exclusively  in  their 
streets  by  men  still  in  uniform,  their  wagons  pulled 
by  httle  mokes.  These  donkeys  were  the  first  pur- 
chase upon  the  owner's  demobilization.  It  was  the 
soldier's  initial  effort  to  do  for  himself,  after  the 
country  had  done  for  him  for  four  years. 

At  our  reciTiiting-stations  in  the  United  States  we 
display  a  placard  which  once  gave  me  a  thrill  when 
I  read  it  in  passing.  It  is  among  the  inducements  for 
going  into  the  army.  ''Trains  the  mind  to  disciplined 
decision,"  m^ges  the  placard. 

And  yet — one  could  see  in  the  eyes  of  the  young 
log-vender  who  had  set  up  in  business  with  this  pur- 
chase of  a  donkey  and  cart  an  enormous  lack  of  dis- 
trust over  his  enterprise — over  his  judgment.     He 

was  on  his  own,  foraging  for  his  own  food,  clothing 

207 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

himself,  choosing  his  own  itinerary  for  the  day,  after 
four  years'  feeding,  clothing,  and  entire  compliance 
with  the  will  of  his  superior  officer.  There  was  no 
question  then  as  to  whether  he  was  to  right-wheel 
or  left-wheel,  right-about-face  or  break-ranks.  Now, 
when  he  and  his  little  cart  would  come  to  the  cross- 
ing of  streets,  he  would  hesitate,  and  sometimes, 
hesitating,  would  be  lost.  Then  he  would  break- 
ranks,  light  a  pipe,  and  sit  down  on  the  curbstone. 

One  reads  in  the  papers  of  the  palming  off  of  dying 
beasts  on  these  poor  boys  investing  their  savings  in 
this  manner,  but  it  is  as  impossible  to  realize  this 
type  of  swindler  as  it  is  to  conjure  up  which  member 
of  one's  club  is  a  thief.  I  believe  there  is  said  to  be 
no  club  without  a  thief.  England  seems  to  be  divided 
into  two  classes  at  present:  those  who  are  expending 
every  fiber  of  their  being  for  the  welfare  of  the  de- 
mobilized man,  and  those  who  are  as  set  upon  de- 
stroying him.  The  problem  of  finding  jobs  for  all 
is  not  yet  acute,  and  the  passer-by  is  spared  the  sad 
derelicts  that  draped  themselves  upon  the  Embank- 
ment and  park  benches  a  decade  ago.  And  this  is 
so  hopeful  a  sign  that  a  stranger  feels  the  man  who 
is  wearing  out  his  body  to  help  these  disbanded  men 
at  this  crucial  stage  has,  at  least,  found  ease  for  his 
soul. 

It  is  said  that  during  the  war  these  pallid,  underfed, 
or  gin-soaked  creatures  did  not  exist  at  all,  going  to 
prove  the  contention  of  the  littlest  girl  that  a  human 
being  will  work  rather  than  go  hungry,  if  the  job  is 
offered  to  him.  After  generations  of  underfeeding, 
men  and  women  lack  the  initiative  to  look  for  work, 
and  this  harks  back  to  the  question  as  to  the  real 
effect  four  years  of  army  service  will  have  upon  the 

208 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

young  men  starting  out  in  a  little  business.  Dis- 
ciplined decision?  He  will  be  disciplined,  but  what 
has  been  his  training  for  decision?  I  ask  the  question 
humbly — I  don't  know. 

It  may  be  that  the  opportunities  for  the  consump- 
tion of  spirits  so  lessened  that  the  derelicts  on  the 
benches  took  food  instead  of  drink,  and  found  them- 
selves no  longer  derelicts.  The  mere  business  of 
moving  about  in  the  search  for  gin  nowadays  creates 
a  vigor  which  is  opposed  to  the  hulk  with  barnacled 
sides.  I  could  never  have  been  a  derelict  in  London, 
for  in  the  effort  to  acquire  a  modest  cellar  both  Mrs. 
Hacking  and  myself  were  continually  on  the  move. 
I  suppose  my  activities  to  acquire  liquors  of  any  sort 
for  visitors  to  our  maisonnette  will  be  read  but  lan- 
guidly by  my  country-people  at  present — a  poor 
striving  as  compared  to  their  stealthy  burying  in 
back  yards  enough  spirits  to  span  one  little  life. 

This  pursuit  of  a  bottle  in  England  seems  to  be  the 
final  reversal  of  the  glass — in  more  ways  than  one. 
When  a  crowd  collects  in  a  London  street  to  watch  a 
mildly  intoxicated  man,  to  watch  him  with  admiration 
and  respect,  to  watch  him  with  bitterness,  you  feel 
that  almost  anything  can  happen  now.  And  when 
Mrs.  Wren,  who  has  been  searching  for  a  bottle  of 
Scotch  for  mc,  comes  hurrying  up  the  steps  to  an- 
nounce, in  a  glad  voice,  that  she  cannot  get  the 
whisky,  but  has  ''heard  of  a  bottle  of  gin  in  High- 
gate,"  you  fall  down  on  your  knees  and  pray,  for  the 
world  is  over. 

One  may  think  that  this  has  nothing  to  do  with 
Mrs.  Hacking,  whom  I  left  buying  pork  at  Battersea, 
but  she  is  across  every  page.  For  Mrs.  Hacking,  with 
Gladys,  with  the  demobbed  man  and  the  donkey,  are 

209 


AN  AMERlCAN'is  LONDON 

the  offsprings  of  the  war  who  may  some  day  become 
the  derehcts  of  futm-e  time.  Not  due  to  lack  of  work, 
but  to  the  war  itself.  ]t  was  not  significant  to  me  at 
first  that  Mrs.  Hacking  marketed  generally  at  the 
noon  hour,  and  if  there  was  no  marketing  to  do  she 
would  go  out  when  the  clock  struck  twelve  to  change 
a  shilling  into  pence  for  the  gas-meter  at  the  corner 
pub.  I  had  pennies,  but  my  housekeeper  did  not 
like  to  disturb  me.  Sometimes  she  came  back  with 
a  headache,  but  she  always  served  me  decently, 
although  maddening  the  landlady  by  taking  a  hot 
bath  in  company  with  the  geyser  in  the  afternoon. 
By  the  dinner  hour  she  was  quite  all  right  again, 
going  out  at  six-thirty  for  more  pennies  sometimes, 
but  staying  far  into  the  evening  that  she  might  leave 
her  kitchen  clean  or  prepare  a  dish  for  my  late  supper. 

She  seldom  went  about  at  night,  although  her 
brother  the  inventor  would  urge  her  not  to  grouse 
and  would  occasionally  take  her  to  the  Town  Hall. 
She  told  me  once  that  it  was  a  soiree  at  the  Town  Hall, 
a  regular  one,  as  several  songs  were  sung.  Yet  it 
was  the  night  of  one  of  these  soirees  that  her  purse 
was  stolen,  containing  two  pounds  of  my  money  and 
her  own  wages.  She  told  me  this  immediately  on 
bringing  up  the  morning  coffee,  her  true-blue  eyes, 
the  kind  you  read  about,  looking  at  me  squarely. 
She  had  been  grizzling  all  night  over  it,  she  said,  as 
she  would  ''arsk  herself  'ow  she  was  going  to  pay  her 
lady  back."  Her  brother  the  inventor  had  not  de- 
rived any  profits  from  his  geysers  yet,  and  ''indeed, 
madam,  you  carn't  blame  me  for  grizzling;  husband 
gone,  piano  gone,  mangle  gone,  and  now  your  money." 

I  did  not  blame  her  for  grizzling.  What  surprised 
me  was  that  I  did  not  grizzle  myself.    Grizzle  over  the 

210 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

perfidy  of  Mrs.  Hacking.  Nor  did  I  grouse  when  I 
certainly  had  occasion  for  being  annoyed  over  her 
carelessness  at  the  soiree — all  of  it  going  to  prove  that 
you  cannot  be  too  careful  among  singers.  I  feared — 
it  came  to  me  now — that  Mrs.  Hacking  might  be  an 
inventor  of  greater  profit  to  herself  than  her  brother 
would  ever  be.  In  Mrs.  Hacking's  case  I  was  the 
geyser  from  which  money  was  to  be  made.  But  at 
that  I  rose  from  my  bed  to  look  over  her  accounts, 
with  never  a  nine  shillings  substituted  for  ninepence 
worth  of  cocoa;  and  I  upbraided  myself  for  my 
suspicions. 

Or  was  it  ''the  advent  of  spring,"  as  the  clerk 
trying  on  my  shoes  very  elegantly  expressed  it,  which 
rendered  me  lax?  For,  by  the  1st  of  Apri),  we  had 
been  unmistakably  apprised  that  there  would  be 
a  spring.  A  spring  which  just  showed  itself  by  an 
appearance  of  buds  in  low,  sheltered  bushes  in  the 
square,  yet,  upon  close  examination,  there  was  no 
bud  whatever,  just  a  swelling  of  the  twigs.  Then  there 
was  that  wonderful  but  chilly  morning  when  the  oil 
stove  and  myself,  upon  making  our  little  promenade 
to  meet  the  bath-tub,  did  not  immediately  close  the 
door  giving  upon  the  garden,  for,  peeping  in,  was  a 
waving  branch  of  a  bush  climbed  from  over  the 
neighbor's  brick  wall,  and  strung  along  it  were  palest 
green  buds,  like  jade  beads  on  a  fairy  wand. 

Two  days  after  that  I  saw,  but  did  not  see— saw, 
but  did  not  see — a  red  furriness  softening  the  stark 
branches  of  trees  in  distant  squares.  But  not  the  trees 
in  our  park — not  those  wise  old  plane  fellows.  No, 
not  for  Easter  would  they  put  on  new  clothes.  You 
couldn't  tell  them  anything  ul>out  an  English  spring. 
Let  the  young  ones  rush  into  fresh  garments,  counting 

211 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

hopefully  on  the  softening  influence  their  eager  young 
green  would  have  upon  the  weather,  the  plane-trees 
would  remain  within  themselves  until  May.  For  the 
wind  is  not  tempered  to  the  young  shoot  on  this 
island,  and  this  harsh  opposition  of  the  elements  is 
the  only  reason  I  would  not  ask  for  every  spring  in 
England. 

Here  the  green  things  come  out  before  the  rains 
have  ceased  to  chill.  Sniff  as  I  might,  I  could  get 
no  scent  of  the  earth  sending  up  its  heart-stirring 
fragrance  after  the  first  warm  rain  such  as  we  have  at 
home.  Every  obstacle  is  placed  in  the  way  of  the 
development  of  the  year,  but,  against  the  cold  re- 
buffs, re-creation  battles  on.  And  I  think  this  sturdy 
growth  in  spite  of  the  bitter  winds  stands  more  per- 
fectly for  the  English  people  than  any  other  simile 
that  comes  to  my  mind.  It  is  time  to  smile,  they  do 
smile.  It  is  time  to  be  gay,  they  are  gay.  The  lip 
must  be  kept  stiffened,  it  is  kept  stiffened.  They 
flourish  in  spite  of  the  oppressions  of  mean  social 
conditions  and  cruel  economic  complications.  They 
have  got  into  the  swing  of  the  English  seasons.  They 
are  the  English  seasons. 

Since  God  created  the  spring.  He  surely  must  allow 
each  mortal  one  springtime  indiscretion,  and  does  not 
enter  it  against  him  in  His  judgment-book.  It  may 
be  a  hat,  a  lover,  or  a  Spanish  chair.  It  may  be 
stealing  other  people's  crocuses,  or  running  away 
from  school.  It  may  be,  as  in  my  case  it  was,  the  con- 
tinuation of  Mrs.  Hacking,  that  I  might  grapple  no 
further  with  servants  and  enjoy  every  opening  daf- 
fodil in  Hyde  Park,  every  lilac  in  our  little  square. 

It  was  probably  a  particularly  foolish  indiscretion. 
As  I  write  now,  knowing  that  I  should  be  landing 

212 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

Mrs.  Hacking  behind  the  bars  instead  of  likening  her 
to  a  springtime  kicking-up  of  the  heels,  I  can  hear  the 
judge  on  the  bench — with  me  in  the  witness-box  and 
Mrs.  Hacking  in  the  dock — asking  me  what  caused 
me  to  retain  the  woman  Hacking's  services  when  I 
had  become  suspicious  of  her.  And  I  could  hear  my 
reply,  and  how  I  would  be  asked  immediately  to 
step  down.  For  I  would  have  embarrassed  the  judge 
by  suddenly  ejaculating,  after  the  manner  of  a  gym- 
nastic teacher: 

"Spring,  your  lordship,  spring!" 


Chapter  XIV 

'ITH  the  spring  came  processions.  Always 
on  matinee  days,  of  course,  and  generally 
cutting  me  off  from  the  theater.  The  first, 
if  I  remember  rightly,  was  the  marching  of  the  Guards 
in  honor  of  their  return  and  in  honor  of  those  that  did 
not  return.  It  was  whispered  by  the  journalists  that 
they  were  being  paraded  through  the  city  as  an  evi- 
dence of  their  strength  if  they  were  needed  to  oppose 
policemen  itching  to  strike,  and  Labor  deciding  every 
Sunday  in  Hyde  Park  to  labor  no  more,  then  going 
out  on  Monday  morning  with  the  dinner-pail,  per 
usual.  There  were  mutterings  that  machine-guns 
were  planted  over  the  city  in  all  sorts  of  unsuspected 
places,  for  the  use  of  those  Guards.  Ugly  rumor  was 
rife  in  England,  and  why  anything  as  unwelcome,  ill 
favored,  and  untruthful  as  rumor  should  be  a  lady  I 
don't  know.  Was  it  as  gallant  a  gentleman  as  Shake- 
speare who  first  called  rumor  a  dame? 

If  the  Guards  were  hurried  out  as  a  menace  to  the 
public,  the  public  was  perfectly  delighted  with  this 
demonstration  against  it,  brought  its  breakfast  and 
lunch  and  sat  on  the  curbstone  to  cheer  the  King's 
men  as  they  passed.  Only — the  English  do  not  cheer 
much ;  that  is,  I  did  not  think  they  cheered  much  until 
— but  if  I  complete  this  part  I  will  reach  the  conclusion 
of  the  whole  matter.  Everything  from  now  on  would 
be  an  anticlimax,  and  the  only  way  to  get  any  dra- 

214 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

matic  value  out  of  my  writings  would  be  for  the  reader 
to  start  at  the  end  and  work  forward.  Fancy  reading : 
"End  the  is  so  and" — it  makes  even  less  sense  than 
my  regular  way! 

But  as  time  went  on,  and  all  matinee  days  seemed 
to  be  given  over  to  processions  welcoming  various 
home  and  colonial  troops,  as  hundreds  of  thousands 
of  men  marched  through  the  streets,  it  got  into  my 
twisted  intellect  that  it  was  a  rather  absurd  form  of 
entertainment.  For  four  years  troops  have  been 
hiking  wherever  their  country  sent  them.  They've 
marched  and  counter-marched,  and  bled  at  the  feet 
and  shoulders,  broken  down  their  arches  and  broken 
down  their  hearts.  They  must  be  almightily  tired  of 
tramping.  WTiy  don't  we  have  the  troops  sit  on  the 
curbstone  and  in  the  High  Places,  and  let  us  march 
past  them?  How  many  of  us  would  turn  out,  I 
wonder,  and  how  often?  And  oh — most  deplorable 
thought  of  all — how  many  of  the  soldiers  would  come 
to  see  us  march? 

When  one  is  in  the  parade  area  of  London  one  would 
think  that  the  rest  of  the  city  was  empty,  but  upon 
going  into  these  unaffected  districts  the  passers-by 
upon  the  street  are  as  many  as  ever,  and  trade  is 
untouched  by  a  million  or  more  of  citizens  gathered 
along  the  line  of  march.  Since  Chelsea  was  not  astir 
on  that  day  of  the  first  great  procession,  I  foolishly 
took  a  mild,  well-behaved  No.  11  bus  that  looked 
as  though  it  would  not  lose  its  head  in  a  crowd,  but 
get  me  safely  down  to  the  matinee  with  that  respect 
for  Art  which  a  Chelsea  bus  should  have.  We  would 
follow  along  the  line  of  march  after  the  troops  had 
gone  over  it,  I  cleverly  planned,  and  in  that  way  I 
would  not  be  held  up. 

15  215 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

I  admit  I  was  a  little  late  eating  my  luncheon,  as 

I  had  been  taking  a  lesson  from  Mrs.  Hacking,  in 
the  absence  of  the  landlady  and  the  Pomeranians, 
on  the  meaning  of  the  various  knocks  on  the  knocker. 
Mrs.  Hacking  would  stand  outside  the  door  and  say 
to  me,  inside,  ''I  am  the  post."  Then  there  would 
be  one  large  knock  and  a  small  echo  following;  or 
she  would  say,  ''I  am  a  tradesman,"  accompanying 
this  by  a  single  loud  dropping  of  the  iron.  She  went 
through  them  all,  post,  telegraph,  tradespeople,  and 
ladies,  and  enjoyed  being  a  lady  most,  when  she  would 
rat-a-tat-tat  indefinitely. 

It  seemed  very  easy,  but  when  I  went  outside  the 
door  and  called  in  to  Mrs.  Hacking,  ''I  am  a  lady," 
Mrs.  Hacking  would  call  back  I  was  the  telegraph- 
boy;  and  when  I  had  a  letter  for  her,  she  claimed  I 
had  brought  only  a  potato.  I  don't  think  any  one 
can  really  perform  on  the  knocker  except  a  Britisher 
or  a  Spanish  dancer  skilled  in  castanets.  We  had  a 
great  deal  of  fun  over  it,  creating  the  usual  London 
crowd  that  springs  up  from  between  the  cracks  of  the 
pavement,  and  Mrs.  Hacking,  who  was  rather  weary 
of  the  austerity  of  the  Square,  said  that  no  one  could 
gather  a  crowd  in  that  locality  but  an  American. 
Still,  she  was  not  disapproving.  She  had  concluded 
the  lesson  by  admitting  that  I  was  "a  darhng  to  work 
for,  in  spite  of  my  American  ways."  And  while  that 
reminded  me  she  would  never  have  had  four  pounds 
advance  had  I  not  been  a  wayward  American,  it  also 
reminded  me  that  neither  of  us  was  working,  and 
luncheon  was  hastened  on — and  down. 

Ten  minutes  after  I  had  gone  riding  off  in  the  No. 

II  bus  it  began  behaving  remarkably.  I  knew  the 
route  of  this  11  bus,  and  took  it  sometimes  in  pref- 

216 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

erence  to  the  more  aristocratic  section  through  which 
19  and  22  made  their  way.  I  always  looked  for  the 
encouraging  sign  of  an  undertaker  along  this  route 
which  read,  '^ Funerals  with  reform/'  and  I  would 
plan  my  own  funeral  until  tears  of  pity  for  myself 
would  run  down  my  cheeks.  I  don't  know  what  the 
undertaker  meant  by  it,  but  I  think  the  last  thing 
England  will  accomplish  will  be  the  reformation  of 
funerals.  Weeps  will  be  hired,  and  crape,  and  there 
will  be  a  drop  of  something  afterward,  but  there  is 
a  certain  canniness  in  holding  off  reforming  until 
your  funeral;  it  is  done  with  the  last  gasp  generally, 
or  what  is  supposed  to  be  the  last  gasp,  and  if  it  doesn't 
turn  out  to  be  one's  last,  it  is  very  awkward  getting 
back  to  your  old  ways,  with  all  the  family  reminding 
you  of  your  spiritual  change.  Having  a  funeral  with 
reform  is  like  one  of  the  American  women  over  here 
who  has  left  in  her  storeroom  in  New  York  City  one 
bottle  of  wine  and  one  of  whisky,  and  who  announced 
to  me  quietly  that  she  would  go  home,  drink  it  up, 
and  then  sign  the  pledge. 

However,  I  suddenly  discovered  that  we  were  avoid- 
ing that  sign,  and  bus  11  was  going  in  and  out  of 
all  sorts  of  strange  streets  (to  the  hurrahing  delight 
of  the  children  of  the  neighborhood,  who  mistook  us 
for  an  elephant),  evidently  pursuing  another  bus  just 
ahead  of  us,  as  though  feeling  the  advent  of  spring 
itself.  ''"Where  are  we  going?"  I  asked  the  girl 
conductor. 

"Nowhere  in  partickler,  lady,"  she  answered,  taking 
a  piece  of  filet  lace  out  of  her  overcoat  pocket  and 
beginning  to  crochet  with  a  settled-for-the-day  air. 
It  was  a  very  flippant  answer  for  a  bus  with  a  route 
and  a  destination,  and  we  were  not  alone  in  our 

217 


AN  AMERICxVN'S  LONDON 

frivolity.  We  came  suddeDly  upon  an  open  place, 
where  a  number  of  huge  conveyances  were  skipping 
clumsily  around,  under  the  impression  that  they  were 
lambs  in  a  meadow. 

Then  I  knew  while  we  were  not  in  the  procession 
yet  were  we  of  it — at  least  the  victims  of  it— and  that 
the  terrible  edict  had  gone  forth  to  "stop  traffic." 
It  takes  but  a  London  bobby's  little  finger,  or  the 
slightest  negative  movement  of  his  wrist,  or  simply 
the  turning  of  his  back  upon  approaching  vehicles  to 
cause  in  five  minutes  a  congestion  that  in  New  York 
would  be  an  hour  amassing.  A  mile  or  two  ahead  of 
us  some  bobby,  somewhere,  under  orders,  had  turned 
his  back  upon  us. 

It  is  going  to  be  quite  impossible  to  make  the  reader 
understand  what  it  means  to  a  player  to  miss  a  per- 
formance. But  she  may  get  a  hint  of  the  gravity'  of 
not  playing  when  the  morning  papers  reveal,  now  and 
then,  that  Miss  So-and-so,  whom  she  saw  acting  light- 
heartedly  the  night  before,  had  news  of  the  death  of 
her  mother  before  going  on  the  stage;  or  she  may 
read  of  an  actor  dying  of  appendicitis  at  midnight 
who  had  played  through  the  evening,  or  of  one  found 
dead  in  his  dressing-room,  fully  made  up,  but  unheed- 
ful  at  last  of  "Beginners,  please,  sir."  The  instinct 
to  live  is  the  strongest  in  human  nature,  but  I  am  sure 
with  the  actor  it  is  welded  in  time  with  the  instinct  to 
get  through  a  performance.  Not  a  heroic  people  in 
any  way,  we  players,  childish,  uncontrolled,  unlearned 
sometimes;  but  we  have  a  sense  of  responsibiUty  in 
our  work  which  I  trust  balances  our  shortcomings, 
for  it  must  emanate  from  an  appreciation  not  of  what 
we  owe  ourselves,  but  the  men  and  women  we  enter- 
tain.   Surely  we  are  the  real  Servants  of  the  Public, 

218 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

Then,  I  beg  of  you,  as  I  sprang  from  11  bus  in 
a  far  slum,  a  thousand  miles  from  anywhere,  try  to 
imagine  the  chaos  of  fear  in  my  heart.  I  was  going 
to  miss  my  performance — for  the  first  time  in  my  hfe 
I  was  going  to  miss  my  performance.  My  brain  swam  ; 
then,  steehng  my  panic  (I  spelled  it  first  "stealing," 
and  it  expresses  my  condition  very  well),  I  became 
clear-headed  again,  and  very  crafty.  Coincident  with 
a  mighty  determination  to  give  that  show,  a  taxi 
crossed  my  vision.  It  was  a  taxi  with  no  desire  to 
take  on  a  passenger,  or  do  anything  except  to  get  out 
of  this  Dutch  picnic  of  fat  leviathans,  and  whizz 
into  better  company.  If  you  can  get  into  a  cab,  the 
driver  cannot  refuse  to  accept  you  as  a  fare,  and  in 
this  way,  while  the  car  was  finessing  a  path  by  run- 
ning cautiously  along  the  sidewalk,  I  climbed  in  all 
unbeknownst  to  the  chauffeur  and  became  a  passenger. 

The  driver  behaved  even  worse  than  usual  over 
the  prospect  of  making  money.  He  roared  to  me  to 
get  ''daown,"  and  I  roared  back  that  I  would  charge 
him  if  he  didn't  "take  me  on."  I  pled  with  him,  too. 
I  reminded  him  that  his  own  wife  might  be  waiting 
at  that  very  moment  to  see  me  act.  "Think  of  the 
women  and  children,"  I  concluded,  softly. 

He  "took  me  on,"  not  that  he  was  touched,  but  it 
must  have  occurred  to  him  that  he  might  empty  his 
open  taxi  by  whirling  me  around  corners,  for  I  was 
standing  up  half  the  time,  trying  to  drive  with  my 
spine.  And  when  he  saw  this  was  no  good  he  tried 
running  down  pedestrians,  so  that  we  could  both  be 
arrested,  and  go  nowhere  except  to  gaol.  But  they 
all  got  out  of  his  way,  as  I  would  cry,  "Hi!  hi!"  from 
over  his  shoulder,  which  embarrassed  him,  as  English- 
men do  not  like  a  fuss,  especially  when  running  over 

219 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

pedestrians.  So  he  gave  that  up,  too.  And  finally 
the  sportsman  which  is  in  every  Briton  got  the  better 
of  his  savage,  shell-shocked  nature,  and  he  assured 
me  he  would  get  me  there,  and,  as  it  was  going  to  be 
costly,  "do  try,  lady,  to  enjoy  the  ride." 

I  think  in  the  next  half -hoar  we  visited  every  place 
of  interest  in  London,  west,  northwest,  and  north, 
except  the  Zoo.  I  felt  hurt,  late  that  night,  as  I 
stretched  my  nerve-racked  body,  and  recalled  that 
we  had  not  gone  to  the  Zoo.  We  were  a  zoo  of  our 
own.  We  joined  a  flock  of  other  mad  vehicles  with 
the  heads  of  other  anxious  passengers  stuck  out  of 
the  window,  and  ran  hither  and  thither.  I  thought 
nothing  could  be  worse  than  going  through  the  streets, 
until  we  made  our  way  into  Hyde  Park,  for  some 
reason  or  other,  and  inadvertently  again  became  part 
of  a  crowd  of  motor-buses,  now  evidently  under  the 
impression  that  they  were  perambulators.  In  the 
middle  of  the  park  I  realized,  as  the  blockade  became 
greater,  that  I  could  not  even  telephone  I  was  not 
coming.  I  realized  this  at  the  moment  I  discovered 
myself  to  be  almost  entirely  undressed.  My  boots 
were  unfastened,  garments  loosened,  and  hat  off,  for 
I  was  making  Unconscious  attempts  to  do  up  my  hair 
after  the  fashion  worn  in  the  play. 

Then  something  more  happened,  as  the  blocked 
vehicles  began  wedging  their  way  forward — the  petrol 
gaVe  out.  The  driver  confessed  it,  and  without  satis- 
faction. He  was  even  sorry  for  me,  sorrier  than  for 
himself.  He  must  have  caught  the  despair  in  my  eye, 
for  he  arose  to  a  supreme  height  of  ingenuity.  "There 
is  one  'ope — a  hambulance.  They  can  go  through 
the  lines."  He  probably  thought  I  was  a  fit  case  for 
one,  and  at  that,  with  the  concerted  effort  of  our  two 

220 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

wills,  we  did  conjure  up  an  ambulance.  It  was  a 
little  American  one,  of  whose  appearance  we  are  not 
very  proud  over  here,  for  our  machines  are  cheap  and 
bunty-looking  as  compared  to  the  luxurious  propor- 
tions of  the  British  cars.  ''An  ill-favored  thing,  but 
mine  own,"  yet,  like  these  little  motors  on  the  battle- 
field, it  could  go  anywhere.    And  it  did. 

Two  gum-chewing  doughboj^s  drove  it,  while  I,  a 
stretcher-bearer  case,  with  the  curtain-flaps  tied  down, 
lay  inside,  my  watch  in  my  hand.  Yet  I  did  not  need 
my  watch.  I  knew  that  those  boys  were  going  to 
back  me  up  to  the  stage-door  in  time  for  my  per- 
formance. And  my  first  statement  to  the  members 
of  the  company  who  had  gathered  nervously  on  the 
pavement  was  significant  of  a  woman's  enormous  in- 
terest in  herself:  "What,"  I  gasped  to  them,  my  head 
protruding  from  the  curtain,  "what  if  America  had 
not  gone  into  the  war?"  The  play  went  on,  the  little 
ambulance  remained  outside,  and  gum  was  chewed 
throughout  the  afternoon  by  two  honored  guests  in 
the  audience. 

Naturally,  the  arrival  from  France  of  these  various 
regiments  who  marched  in  the  Guards'  jDrocession 
antedated  this  event,  and  it  was  to  see  how  London 
received  the  conquerors  before  they  were  scoured  up 
for  show  that  I  attended  the  detraining  of  the  Scots 
Guards  on  the  first  day  that  one  could  ride  on  the  top 
of  a  bus  and  ask  oneself,  "Were  three  overcoats  nec- 
essaiy?"  I  was  preparing  for  a  tremendous  welcome. 
England  has  shown  throughout  the  war  more  emo- 
tionalism than  has  her  temperamental  sister,  France. 
In  191G,  at  least,  regiments  marched  through  the 
streets  of  Paris  without  so  much  as  a  head  turned 
in  their  direction.     Even  the  little  French  boy,  in 

221 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

black,  continued  to  roll  his  hoop  along  the  Elys^es 
walk.  It  may  have  been  because  he  was  in  black, 
because  he  and  all  the  rest  of  France  were  as  much 
part  of  the  war  as  the  warriors  themselves,  that  he 
had  become  apathetic  over  the  clump-clump  of  sol- 
diers' feet. 

Certainly  emotionalism  was  not  encouraged.  The 
blesses  for  Paris  were  taken  off  the  hospital  trains  at 
Gare  de  la  Chapelle,  a  remote  station,  where  the  pub- 
lic had  no  access.  Here  in  London,  for  four  years, 
Charing  Cross  Station  has  been  the  sad,  daily  Mecca 
of  thousands  of  citizens  who  came  with  flowers  and 
dainties  and  a  sob  in  their  throats  for  the  wounded, 
hastened  by  rail  and  water  in  twenty-four  hours' 
time  direct  from  their  Calvaries.  They  tell  me  the 
crowds  never  lessened  and  the  tears  never  ceased. 
And  I  think  it  is  very  significant  of  the  English  that 
they  do  not  show  their  affections  unless  their  people 
need  it  very  much.  There  is  the  story  of  an  earl  who 
became  a  private,  only  to  find  himself  in  company 
v.dth  one  of  his  grooms.  Yet  he  remained  an  earl  as 
far  as  his  attitude  toward  the  groom  was  concerned 
until  the  ''mere  person"  was  wounded,  when  the 
belted  gentleman  worked  over  him  in  an  agony  of 
devotion,  as  he  would  have  worked  over  his  own  kin. 

Certainly  the  enthusiasm  over  the  Scots  Guards 
was  tempered.  I  met  them  at  Madame  Tussaud's 
and  began  demanding  angrily  of  the  woman  next  to 
me  why  the  people  didn't  cheer.  She  said  she  didn't 
know,  as  she  bad  come  up  from  the  country,  which 
was  reason  enough.  I  essayed  a  feeble  shout,  and  was 
looked  at,  oh,  ever  so  kindly!  but  looked  at.  After 
that  first  cheer,  which  gave  me  courage,  I  was  ready 
for  anything,  and,  quite  to  my  own  surprise,  found 

22'^ 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

myself  alongside  the  color-bearer,  in  company  with 
several  unashamed  females  who  undoubtedly  had 
their  men  in  the  ranks.  I  had  no  man,  but  they  were 
a  fine-looking  set,  and  I  was  veiy  willing  to  let  any 
one  think  I  had.  I  also  ran  ahead  at  various  points, 
and  tried  to  start  a  cheer.  I  was  quite  mad.  Certain 
contained  gentlemen  must  have  longed  to  cry,  "Egad, 
why  doesn't  this  noisy  American  go  home  and  cheer?" 

One  had  to  run  to  keep  up  with  these  fellows.  They 
give  no  appearance  of  moving  rapidly,  but  their  stride 
is  so  long  that  I  must  take  two  paces  to  their  one. 
At  Oxford  Street  I  made  my  way  fiercely  through  the 
crowd,  inciting  them  to  violence,  and  I  also  blazed 
a  trail  for  the  most  delightful  woman  on  the  pavement. 
I  had  noticed  her  in  my  gallopings  to  and  fro.  She 
was  limping  along,  perfectly  silent,  but  beaming  from 
every  pore,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  one  huge,  middle- 
aged  giant,  who  was  looking  most  conscious,  and  in 
his  embarrassment  refusing  to  take  any  notice  of 
her.  She  was  undoubtedly  his  ''old  woman."  She 
carried,  as  a  flag  to  attract  his  attention,  a  pillow- 
case which  she  had  not  quite  the  courage  to  wave  at 
full  length,  for  she  was  a  lone  critter,  but  kittle-cattle 
in  the  eyes  of  men.  Still,  we  managed  it  together. 
At  one  point  where  they  marked  time,  lifting  their 
feet  high  as  our  soldiers  scuffle,  the  old  woman  and 
I  linked  up  together,  although  she  never  knew  this, 
and  I  besought  her  to  ''Wave!  Wave!"  while  I  piped 
up  "Hip!  Hip!"  One  "Hip"  will  start  an  English 
crowd.  They  caught  the  word,  the  pillow-case  soared, 
the  masses  cheered,  the  soldier  turned  and  nodded  to 
his  "old  woman,"  and  then  their  neat  black  shoes 
pounded  on  to  South  Audley  Street. 

3he  remained  behind.     She  was  satisfied,  and  she 

223 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

would  have  been  more  so  could  I  ever  have  told  her 
of  his  continued  wagging  of  his  head  as  he  marched 
along,  and  of  his  face  softened  in  delighted  recollection. 
1  was  by  this  time  running  everything.  I  was  un- 
consciously mumiuring,  ''Hats  off,"  to  those  who  did 
not  salute  the  colors,  even  though  I  was  glad  to  find 
that  the  average  man  in  the  street  was  as  little 
inclined  to  lift  his  hat  as  the  average  man  is  at  home. 
But  it  made  me  a  little  heavy-hearted,  since  I  had 
adopted  this  regiment,  that  the  loudest  cheers  along 
the  way  were  given  by  the  troops  themselves  whenever 
they  passed  a  hospital.  They  had  a  funny  way  of 
going  sharply  and  quickly,  ''Hurray,  hurray! 
hurray!"  and  no  more,  to  the  wounded  men  and 
the  pretty  nurses.  And  perhaps  there  were  eleven 
of  that  marching  regiment  who  gave  another  and  a 
silent  cheer  for  the  original  full  complement  of  their 
first  number.  Eleven  alone  are  left  of  that  first  flam- 
ing regiment  that  swept  over  France,  and,  like  a 
forest  fire,  was  battened  down. 

This  was  the  day  when  I  came  home  perspiring, 
not  a  delicate  subject  nor  worthy  of  record,  but  of 
such  interest  to  me  that  I  see  less  humor  than  I 
once  did  in  the  Scotch  courtship  which  begins  with, 
"Do  you  sweat?"  It  was  a  red-letter  day  for  me,  al- 
though I  might  have  fixed  the  date  easily  any  way, 
for  Mrs.  Hacking  made  it  memorable  by  conveying 
to  me,  delicately,  her  fear  that  Beechey  drank.  I 
had  taken  occasion  to  mark  our  port  and  sherry,  one 
of  those  lead-pencil  marks  on  the  label  that  any  one 
who  was  crafty  enough  to  steal  liquor  would  be  crafty 
enough  to  see.  But  the  liquors  continued  steadily 
going  down,  and  when  I  summoned  up  the  courage  to 
speak  to  Mrs.  Hacking  about  it  (oh,  those  heart- 

224 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

beating  moments  in  domestic  life  when  we  must  begin 
to  make  a  row!),  she  s-aid  that  she  herself  had  noticed 
the  marks  on  the  bottle  when  she  arranged  them  in 
the  cupboard,  and  had  appreciated  why  I  had  put 
them  on.  Once  or  twice,  being  an  older  woman,  she 
had  thought  to  make  bold  to  speak  to  her  (my  brain 
grew  thick  at  ''her" — what  did  Mrs.  Hacking  mean 
by  that?),  but  of  course  ''it  ain't  my  plice,  madam,  is 
it?"  It  all  came,  Mrs.  Hacking  delicately  concluded, 
from  the  poor  young  girl  (oh,  undoubtedly  Beechey 
now!)  being  so  dispirited  from  the  war.  A  body  was 
one  of  two  things  now — low-spirited  or  too  high- 
spirited. 

I  could,  and  should,  have  replied  to  this  that  if 
Beechey  was  low-spirited,  she  was  'igh,  and  I  wanted 
her  to  leave  my  own  particular  kind  of  spirits  alone; 
but  the  fear  of  an  out-and-out  clash  with  any  one  so 
infernally  clever  as  Mrs.  Hacking  was  not  in  tune  with 
my  idea  of  a  peaceful  spring.  I  tried  now  to  square 
my  conscience  with  the  placating  thought  that,  while 
I  was  losing  money  by  Mrs.  Hacking,  I  was  getting 
another  side-light  upon  the  war— its  consequences— 
which  was  good  for  the  book.  Thus,  as  usual,  sacri- 
ficing myself  for  art. 

The  situation  was  complex.  Out  of  partizanship 
for  my  friend  I  declared  to  her  that  if  Beechey  needed 
spirits  she  must  have  them,  and  no  doubt  Mrs.  Hack- 
ing knew  I  would  say  this,  and  knew  that  I  would  not 
dare  lock  up  the  bottles,  which  would  suggest  a  lack 
of  faith  in  my  guest.  So  I  went  on,  a  fly  in  a  spider's 
web,  without  a  buzz  in  me,  and  longing  at  times 
most  ardently  for  my  abh.temious  c(jlored  girls  at  home. 

But  to  the  end  Mrs.  Hacking  was  not  a  revolting 
spider.     She  kept  the  web  neat,  and  beyond  an  in- 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

clination  to  let  her  hair  go  blooey  on  the  days  she  had 
the  headaches,  beginning  at  noon  when  the  pubs  were 
open,  she  always  made  a  good  appearance.  In  a  very 
impersonal  way,  I  could  not  help  but  admire  the  in- 
telligence with  which  she  ensnared  me.  She  stood 
for  a  lesson  to  all  the  vampire  breed,  who  generally 
give  themselves  away  by  their  clothes  the  moment 
they  slink  upon  the  scene.  Since  she  was  intelligent, 
I  tapped  her  fount  of  wisdom  as  often  as  I  could  that  I 
might  gain  some  mental  advantage  to  oppose  my 
material  losses.  In  spite  of  her  upbringing  (and  on 
headache  days  she  darkly  suggested  that  her  father's 
mother  was  a  lady),  I  don't  think  she  had  ever  had 
much  of  a  chance,  even  though  she  had  been  sent  to 
a  Board  school — ^ninepence  a  week,  if  you  please  and 
sixpence  extra  for  French. 

At  fifteen  she  had  gone  into  ''the  bar,"  in  the 
East  End  of  London,  and  after  that  came  years  of 
service  with  splendid  ladies  of  good  address  who 
called  her  by  her  last  name,  as  I  would  never  dare 
to  do,  and  who  played  bridge  for  such  high  stakes  that 
occasionally  the  'tecs  called  at  the  house.  I  thought 
when  Mrs.  Hacking  first  told  me  this  she  was  refer- 
ring to  students,  and  I  asked  her  where  was  the 
Technology.  And  as  she  replied  they  did  not  call  it 
the  Technology  over  here,  but  the  police  station,  I 
realized  she  was  speaking  of  detectives. 

The  occasional  mislaying  of  a  fifty-pound  note  or 
the  discovery  of  marked  cards  did  not  detract  from 
the  enjoyment  of  being  a  servant  in  such  households. 
Again  a  dull  below-stairs  existence  was  kept  in  a.  glow 
by  vicarious  excitements,  lurid,  tainted  joys,  but  joys 
held  in  esteem  by  the  Mrs.  Hackings  of  life,  since 
the  participants  were  their  highly  scented  betters. 

226 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

Then  came  her  marriage,  her  two  children,  a  little 
house  in  the  suburbs  and,  from  what  I  could  gather, 
a  decent  existence.  After  an  interval  was  recorded 
the  loss  of  one  child,  then  war,  the  loss  of  her  hus- 
band, the  loss  of  the  second  child,  and  the  parting 
with  the  piano  and  the  mangle.  Again  Mrs.  Hacking 
went  out  to  service,  not  shaken  by  grief — I  found  no 
signs  of  that — but  rather  like  the  belting  that  has 
slipped  from  off  the  fly-wheel  and  goes  beating  dan- 
gerously around  in  the  air. 

On  the  day  she  told  me  she  had  ''joined  up"  for 
motor-van  instruction  and  service,  to  take  effect  when 
I  gave  up  my  house,  I  told  her  bluntly  that  I  would 
not  give  her  a  character  for  such  head-work.  I  had 
a  picture  of  Mrs.  Hacking  wiping  off  the  foam  on 
her  khaki  sleeve  at  the  noon  hour  and  climbing 
up  on  a  high  seat  to  go  cavorting  over  humble 
folk  like  me.  She  expressed  surprise  at  this,  and 
showed  me  her  letters  of  commendation  for  her 
work  ''in  the  shells."  She  then  went  into  the 
many  processes  of  munitions  meticulously,  and  prac- 
tically constructed  a  deadly  explosive  for  me  as  I 
had  my  breakfast. 

She  did  not  lose  a  night  in  eighteen  months,  but 
was  beat  out  when  she  got  through.  Yes,  she  had 
seen  some  'orrid  sights,  a  girl  scalped  from  forehead 
to  the  nape  of  her  neck,  and  all  just  from  carelessness. 
Nine  out  of  ten  of  the  accidents  were  from  indiffer- 
ence to  rules.  Ladies  had  worked  alongside  of  her, 
some  of  them  had  driven  her  home  in  their  own 
motor-cars,  and  the  ladies  didn't  generally  have  acci- 
dents, for  they  were  more  careful;  still,  they  were 
awful  tired  driving  home.  The  girls  of  the  lower 
classes  would  keep  their  hair  up  with  wire  hairpins, 

227 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

although  they  were  told  of  the  risk  they  ran.  They 
didn't  seem  to  take  it  in. 

And  yet,  Mrs.  Hacking  thought,  on  the  whole, 
munition-making  was  work  better  suited  to  the  rough- 
est girls,  and  from  what  I  could  make  out  by  that 
statement  it  was  because  they  had  less  imagination 
and  worked  in  less  terror  with  a  deft  sureness.  All 
the  more  credit  to  the  great  ladies,  Mrs.  Hacking 
thought,  and  so  did  I,  for  I,  too,  had  once  intended 
going  into  the  shells,  that  I  might  share  some  of  the 
real  dangers  of  war.  Yet  the  picture  of  ensuing  bleed- 
ing stumps  had  reduced  me  to  such  a  state  of  in- 
competency that  I  had  been  told  I  would  be  of  no 
use,  anyway. 

'^Yes,  it  was  exciting,  madam,"  concluded  my 
housekeeper,  walking  off  with  the  oil  stove  to  the 
bath-room,  ''and  it  leaves  a  blank." 

She  went  out  at  noon  to  change  a  shilling  for  pen- 
nies at  the  pub,  and  I  could  understand  that  this 
was  Mrs.  Hacking's  way  of  filling  up  the  blank.  That 
same  night  she  served  us  with  a  crab  that  was  prob- 
ably entered  in  my  housekeeping-book  at  three  times 
what  she  had  paid  for  it,  emulating  her  betters  in  an 
interesting  form  of  double-dealing  without  fear  of  the 
'tecs.    So  worked  her  able,  dishonestly  trained  mind. 

It  was  rather  a  relief  to  seek  refuge  from  the  plot- 
tings  of  my  maisonnette  and  go  do^vn  to  the  House 
of  Mirth,  as  I  heard  one  th«ater-goer  call  the  abode 
of  our  comedy-drama.  We  women  sit  in  the  wings 
near  the  entrances,  and  work  on  sheer  underwear  now, 
whereas  the  actresses  during  the  war  knitted  socks 
as  they  waited  for  their  cue.  Roars  from  the  audience, 
varying  in  volume,  come  to  us.  Sometimes  there  is 
a  silence  when  we  were  rhythmically  expecting  the 

228 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

usual  laugh,  and  we  look  at  each  other  and  smile,  for 
the  actor  on  the  stage  has  slurred  his  point.  The 
stage-manager  comes  from  the  ''prompt"  entrance 
and  growls  because  the  man  ''changed  his  reading," 
or  he  will  briefly  announce,  "Somebody  coughed." 

It's  everybody  coughed  when  I'm  on  the  scene, 
or  it  sounds  that  way,  but  one  cough  from  one  auditor 
is  as  a  javelin  leveled  against  a  comedy-point;  and  I 
don't  see  how  the  vocal  expression  of  a  tickling  sen- 
sation in  the  throat  is  always  arranged  for  just  on 
the  word  that  brings  the  laugh.  Sometimes  the  actor 
hears  a  sort  of  preparation  for  the  explosion,  and  hur- 
ries to  the  end  of  his  sentence  before  the  climacteric 
bark  is  reached.  "Beat  him  to  it,"  the  juvenile  whis- 
pered to  me  the  other  night,  as  I  was  galloping  along 
ahead  of  a  gentleman  easing  his  bronchitis,  and  I 
did  reach  my  top-note  before  he  got  to  his.  But 
again,  they  are  too  swift  for  me,  and  then  I  must 
repeat  my  phrases,  mark  time  with  an  appearance  of 
natural,  hesitating  speech,  until  the  cough  is  stilled 
and  I  ring  out  my  voice  on  the  point.  The  audience 
laughs  at  me  then  for  being  a  kindly,  humorous  per- 
son; but  oh,  if  they  knew  the  hate  in  my  heart! 

For  it  would  seem  that  some  theater-gOers  buy  a 
stall,  or  an  orchestra-chair  at  home,  for  the  express 
purpose  of  rumbling  their  affliction  through  the  audi- 
torium. It  is  a  little  pleasure  party  for  the  cough. 
The  possessor  should  really  buy  an  extra  ticket,  one 
for  himself  and  one  for  the  bronchial  tubes.  They 
are  both  equally  in  evidence.  The  patron  of  the 
arts  will  argue  that  he  can't  help  it — but  he  can.  He 
can  restrain  his  cough  until  a  point  is  made.  When 
the  scene  becomes  tense  on  the  stage  the  coughing 
ceases  all  over  the  house.     They  forget  the  cough, 

229 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

and  when  the  situation  is  relieved  the  whoops  begin. 
It  is  the  same  way  on  the  other  side  the  curtain. 
How  seldom  an  actor  coughs  on  the  stage,  yet  how 
often  he  coughs  in  the  wings,  to  the  distress  of  his 
companions  still  on  the  scene !  And  on  that  night  you 
hear  an  actor  bark  through  his  own  lines  send  for 
the  undertaker — he  is  far  gone. 

It  comes  to  me  some  nights,  when  the  great,  round, 
welcome  volume  of  laughing  sound  continues  delight- 
fully through  the  piece,  when  royalty  is  in  the  box,  and 
the  comedian  is  playing  up,  when  the  carriages  of 
the  sovereigns  wait  outside  by  the  stage-door,  and 
well-dressed  plain-clothes  men  stand  casually  about — 
it  comes  to  me  then  that  this  is  not  entirely  the 
House  of  Mirth,  but  the  House  of  Contrasts,  for  the 
real  drama  is  not  of  the  stage,  but  of  the  men  behind 
the  scenes,  and  with  a  full  cast  of  characters  in  the 
audience  to  balance  our  comedy  with  their  tragedies. 

We  play  to  all  sorts  of  peoples,  and  various  messages 
are  brought  by  those  actors  who  have  opened  the  play 
and  made  their  exit  to  those  yet  to  make  their  en- 
trances. ''Pitch  your  voice  high,"  we  suggest,  for 
we  have  seen  a  young  man  in  uniform  with  his  hand 
to  his  ear,  straining  for  the  humor  of  the  play.  Or  it 
may  be,  "Don't  stare  down  on  the  front  row — a  boy 
is  there  with  his  nose  gone."  At  times  from  across  the 
blur  that  the  footlights  create  we  detect  curious  little 
bobbing  motions,  as  though  late-comers  wereliaving 
a  hard  time  reaching  their  seats  far  from  the  aisle. 
Then  we  see,  with  a  pang  of  pity  that  in  no  way 
affects  the  mechanism  of  our  comedy,  that  some  one- 
legged  soldiers  are  hopping  between  the  rows,  their 
crutches  resting  against  the  gold  incrustation  of  the 
boxes.     We  so  often  see  those  crutches  against  the 

230 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

boxes.  They  are  but  homely  yellow  oak  amid  the 
gilded  garlands,  yet  surely  no  theater  ever  boasted 
a  more  noble  decoration. 

On  the  da^^s  that  the  blind  soldiers  of  St.  Dun- 
stan's  are  in  front  we  find  ourselves  introducing  lines 
into  our  speeches  that  they  may  more  perfectly  under- 
stand the  action  of  the  play.  As  we  pick  up  our  prop- 
erties we  mention  their  names;  when  a  mimic  battle 
is  fought  with  dishes,  the  china  is  articled  aloud. 
We  call  the  characters  by  name,  as  they  make  their 
entrances.  And  if  we  do  this  haltingly  I  pray  that 
the  audience  will  pardon  us,  for  after  weeks  of  rhyth- 
mic speech  the  introduction  of  new  words,  even  new 
gestures,  fills  us  with  panic. 

It  was  only  the  other  day  that  I  suddenly  discovered 
I  had  cut  the  comedian  out  of  three  of  his  best  laughs 
by  jumping  down  to  the  end  of  the  scene.  They  were 
laughs  on  lines,  too,  and  not  on  actions,  and  there 
were  blind  boys  in  front  who  would  have  enjoyed  the 
point,  so  I  was  all  the  more  apologetic  to  the  comedian 
when  we  made  our  exit.  I  confessed  to  him  that  I 
had  been  mentally  rehanging  my  pictures  in  my 
New  York  flat,  and  he  said  he  had  been  in  his  New 
York  parlor  while  we  were  playing  the  scene,  telling 
his  folks  all  about  the  trip.  The  funny  part  about 
it  is  that  my  understudy,  out  in  front,  said  we  really 
did  play  the  entire  scene,  never  did  it  better,  and 
the  blind  boys  had  laughed  uproariously.  The  come- 
dian didn't  know  he  had  spoken  the  lines,  I  didn't 
know  I  had  heard  them,  so  busy  were  we  in  our  New 
York  apartments.  Not  that  this  has  anything  to  do 
with  the  House  of  Contrasts,  but  that  it  goes  to  show, 
when  one  has  become  mechanical,  the  possible  terri- 
fying effects  of  introducing  new  words  and  actions. 

16  231 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

And  I  like  to  think  that  we  get  along  with  our  in- 
novations as  well  as  we  do  because  we  are  intent 
upon  the  mutilcs  and  not,  strangely  enough — as  we 
are  supposed  to  be  a  vain  lot— concentrated  upon 
ourselves. 

Back  on  the  stage  the  little  tragedies  continue,  un- 
written, unsung.  On  a  narrow  platform  on  the  0.  P. 
side,  the  spot-light  that  shines  upon  our  comedy 
is  controlled  by  a  demobbed  man  who  agonizingly 
drags  himself  up  the  iron  ladder  which  leads  to  the 
light,  for  his  sjDine  is  permanently  injured.  I  never 
get  any  farther  than,  ''Is  it  bad  to-night?"  and  he 
answers,  "Pretty  bad,  ma'am." 

He  is  less  optimistic  than  the  gentle-eyed  soldier 
with  the  paralyzed  arm  who  feeds  the  light  on  the 
"prompt"  side.  He  is  always  "getting  better,  thank 
you."  He  is  trying  to  get  better.  After  he  has  pulled 
himself  up  the  little  ladder  by  one  arm,  he  sits  along- 
side his  light  and  employs  both  hands  by  embroider- 
ing industriously,  while  we  women  below,  amid  our 
billows  of  fine  nainsook,  occasionally  smile  up  at  him 
— a  comrade  in  the  arts. 

At  the  back  of  the  scene  the  third  light  was  for  a 
time  watched  by  a  perfectly  whole  young  man  wear- 
ing a  belt  covered  with  regimental  badges  of  all 
kinds — cut  from  off  dead  comrades,  I  fear — which 
were  to  be  secured  from  him  at  a  price.  The  tragedy 
of  this  young  man  was  his  wholeness,  for,  try  as  he 
might,  he  could  get  no  regular  work  to  do,  and 
guarding  the  "spots"  is  not  sufficient  to  keep  one 
whole.  So  he  was  driven  back  to  the  army,  joined 
up  for  Russia,  and  only  prayed  he  was  to  have  the 
care  of  'osses.  There  were  two  over  in  France  that 
he  had  grown  particular  fond  of — Gipsy  and  Doorkey 

232 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

(I  went  back  several  times  to  ask  him  about  Doorkey, 
and  finally  discovered  the  horse  was  Darky),  and  he 
cried  like  a  babby  when  he  'ad  to  leave  them.  He  said 
feeding  the  light  in  the  theater  was  no  man's  job  after 
feeding  'osses,  and  there  I  agreed  with  him,  for  I  can 
imagine  nothing  more  sacrificial  than  training  a  light 
to  shine  on  somebody  else. 

He  alone,  of  all  the  stage  crew — and  every  one  of 
them  is  touched  by  the  war — was  willing  to  talk  of 
his  adventures.  I  think  with  these  little  men  it  is 
not  from  lack  of  interest,  but  that  it  is  all,  all  un- 
speakable. Besides,  when  a  thing  is  over  with  an 
Englishman,  it  is  over.  To  be  sure,  Mrs.  Wren  will 
give  me  information  on  the  treatment  of  her  nephew, 
long  imprisoned  by  the  Germans,  and  how  the 
men  suffered  until  the  blessed  Red  Cross  packets 
came  through.  The  nephew  is  now  back  in  the 
business  with  his  father,  restless  and  miserable,  I 
learn  (for  naturally  he  would  confide  in  Mrs.  Wren, 
as  I  do).  He  would  as  lief  be  a  German  prisoner, 
he  says,  he  would  liefer,  for  a  prisoner  has  a  chance 
of  escape! 

Mrs.  Wren  varies  the  stories  of  her  nephew  with 
those  of  raid  nights,  when  the  shrapnel  of  the  barrage 
rattled  upon  the  roof  of  our  theater  as  the  actors 
continued  in  their  roles,  the  British  audience  remain- 
ing finnly  in  their  seats.  The  foyers,  these  nights, 
were  open  to  the  public,  and  soon  filled  with  a  con- 
trolled mob,  forgetting  the  terror  outside  as  they  peered 
through  the  glass  door  at  the  lesser  show  upon  the 
stage.  Every  attache  of  the  theater  has  his  story  of 
these  raids,  but  the  door-man  tops  them  all  in  the 
recounting  of  his  trip  home  on  one  of  these  memorable 

nights,  choosing,  as  a  fearless  ex-policeman  should, 

233 


AN  x^MERICAN'S  LONDON 

the  top  of  an  omnibus  where,  of  a  sudden-hke,  a 
gentleman  seated  directly  in  front  burst  all  over  him. 

I  have  now  upon  my  mantel-shelf  a  Toby  jug,  the 
gift  of  a  good  woman  who  has  scrubbed  the  old  oaken 
steps  of  our  theater  for  thirty  years.  I  put  upon  her 
finger  one  day  the  ring  of  one  who  had  worn  it  on  the 
battle-field  over  which  her  son  had  fought.  For  she 
had  no  keepsake  of  her  lost  boy — no  canteen,  identity 
disk,  or  shred  of  clothing.  For  a  year  he  was  dead  to 
her,  killed,  as  his  captain  had  reported,  and  then, 
quite  recently,  so  that  we  Americans  all  shared  in  her 
bewilderment  and  concern,  came  a  card  from  a  Ger- 
man hospital.  It  was  a  card  of  almost  a  year  ago, 
on  which  the  boy  had  written  for  fruit.  And  at  the 
bottom  of  his  message  the  German  nurse  had  added 
that  the  next  day  this  prisoner  had  died.  It  must 
be  that,  until  a  short  time  ago,  the  nurse  had  not 
looked  over  her  effects,  and,  finding  the  post-card, 
sent  it  on.  I  gave  the  mother  the  ring  on  the  day  she 
came  to  ask  if  I  advised  her  to  'ope.  I  took  it  from 
my  finger  as  I  advised  her  7iot  to  hope,  and  I  trust 
I  may  be  forgiven  for  painting  the  skill  and  kind- 
ness of  German  nurses  and  doctors  in  more  glow- 
ing colors  than  a  pro-Ally  should.  If  the  old  lady 
found  no  room,  in  her  worn  heart  for  belief  she 
made  a  place  for  gratitude,  and  her  prized  Toby  jug 
is  now  mine. 

So  the  play  goes  on.    We  step  from  the  brilliant 

blaze  of  the  stage  to  the  great,  dignified  dark  places 

behind   the  canvas  walls,  dotted  with   broken  men 

bent  uncomplainingly  to  their  task.     And  when  the 

royalties  have  gone  and  the  house  is  black  save  for 

the  fight   of  the  stage-door,  we  pass  by  old  Ned 

the    fireman,     white-haired,     aged,     smiling,     ever 

234 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

smiling.  Only  once  could  I  stumble  out,  ''I'm  aw- 
fully Sony  about  your  boy,"  and  old  Ned  per- 
mitted himself,  ''Not  even  a  grave,  ma'am,"  then 
continued  smiling. 

So  out  in  the  night  from  the  House  of  Mirth — the 
House  of  Contrasts — or  is  it  not  the  House  of  Pain? 


Chapter  XV 

BEECHEY  says,  if  one  hasn't  the  money  to 
shop  in  the  spring,  one  should  fall  in  love, 
and  that  made  me  nervous,  for  she  was  with- 
out money,  the  dog  never  having  paid  for  its  portiait 
except  in  grateful  tail-waggings.  I  told  her  to  wait 
a  little  while  until  I  could  look  around,  as  I  could 
not  trust  her  judgment.  She  would  be  sure  to  choose 
a  gentleman  because  he  was  paintable  or  looked  like 
Sargent.  In  the  mean  time,  we  would  shop  together, 
visiting  only  those  agreeable  places  where  you  were 
not  solicited  to  spend  any  money. 

Most  of  the  big  shops  nowadays  have  adopted  the 
American  fashion  of  leaving  you  to  wander  at  will 
without  the  sensation  that  the  house  detective  is  fol- 
lowing you  about,  ready  to  pounce  upon  you  if  a  pur- 
chase is  not  made  immediately.  We  go  for  prefer- 
ence to  Knightsbridge,  as  it  fills  the  imagination  to 
be  buying  boudoir-caps  in  such  a  neighborhood. 
Where  are  the  knights?  Wliere  is  the  bridge  that 
they  rode  across?  Where  is  the  stream  that  the 
bridge  spanned,  over  which  the  knights  rode?  Don't 
any  one  tell  me.  Leave  it  to  my  pleasant  im- 
aginings— but  how  glibly  we  use  the  word  now  with- 
out analysis! 

We  know  only  one  knight  in  this  district,  but  we 
have  friends  all  along  the  way,  mostly  the  little  dogs 
of  the  blind  men.    One  of  these  blind  men  used  to  go 

236 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

down  on  the  top  of  the  bus  with  me,  the  boy  who 
leads  him  to  his  place  of  business  on  the  sidewalk 
sitting  with  his  patron  while  his  sort  of  fox-terrier 
sat  with  me  on  my  fur  coat.  I  don't  know  how  long 
his  master  has  been  in  the  blind  business,  but  he  was 
not  always  so,  for  he  once  told  the  boy,  who  was  new 
to  the  world,  that  he  had  helped  build  the  big  shops, 
and  most  of  'em  had  begun  with  nothing  at  all.  It 
was  encouraging  to  know  that  something  could  be 
evolved  out  of  nothing  at  all,  but  it  accounted  for 
this  obvious  adding  on  of  wings,  and  different  levels, 
and  lifts  that  take  you  to  one  department,  but  shut 
you  off  from  another  on  the  same  floor;  staircases 
that  lead  up,  but  won't  go  dowm  to  the  streets,  and 
dress-goods  that  are  on  one  side  of  the  road  refusing 
to  have  anything  to  do  with  trimmings  on  the  other. 
In  America  we  would  tear  down  everything  and  begin 
over  again,  but  here  all  is  gradual  growth,  and  while 
this  is  complicating  and  irritating,  it  is  their  way,  and 
I  don't  have  to  shop  here  if  I  don't  want  to. 

I  don't  always  hold  this  tolerant  thought  as  I 
always  should.  But  I  get  into  a  fine  rage  over  other 
Americans  who  refuse  to  lend  themselves  to  the  man- 
ners of  the  country  they  visit.  We  of  the  United 
States  are  sometimes  laughed  at  in  Europe  for  our 
active  sightseeing,  but  surely  the  most  maddening 
of  all  tourists  must  be  such  of  us  as  refuse  to  see. 
'^ Strand  Americans,"  I  call  them.  They  sit  in  the 
lobbies  of  the  big  hotels  in  the  Strand  and  groan  be- 
cause everything  isn't  just  as  it  is  in  the  country 
they  have  left.  With  a  history  to  dig  into  which 
makes  the  wildest  fiction  tame,  a  history  illustrated 
by  palaces  and  castles,  clnu'chcs  and  i)icture-galleries, 
country  inns  and  joy-rides,  history  that  can  be  learned 

237 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

without  any  strain  on  the  intellect— all  they  have  to 
do  is  look,  and  the  looking  is  beautiful — they  relieve 
the  tedium  of  a  London  day  by  steady  attendance 
at  a  cinema. 

''What  did  you  see  this  afternoon?"  I  asked  one 
pretty  girl,  feeling  virtuous  myself,  as  I  had  just  come 
from  Westminster. 

''Charlie  Chaplin— immense!"  was  her  answer. 

One  doesn't  have  to  have  friends  in  London  to 
keep  occupied,  but  now  that  my  visiting-list  is  a  long 
one,  sightseeing  is  not  of  the  vigorous  quality  that  it 
was  once  over  here,  and  I  suppose  my  day  during  this 
visit  is  about  what  the  average  London  householder 
embraces.  Besides  little  dog-friends  in  Knightsbridge 
we  have  two-legged  ones  whom  we  know  well  enough 
to  drop  in  on.  You  have  to  know  them  pretty  well 
to  drop  in  for  tea,  and  if  I  have  one  criticism  to  make 
of  delightful  English  ways,  it  is  this  business  of  en- 
gaging you  far  ahead  for  the  tea-hour  and  holding 
it  as  inviolable  as  a  formal  dinner.  An  opportunity 
may  present  itself  that  will  bring  the  expected  guest 
a  less  ephemeral  enjoyment,  but  a  cup  of  tea  for  which 
you  have  contracted  ten  days  before  stands  squarely 
in  the  middle  of  the  afternoon. 

The  talk  is  always  good  at  these  teas,  however, 
although  if  I  haven't  got  my  sugar  I  set  my  cup  aside. 
No  one  nags  at  me  for  not  drinking — I  was  invited  at 
the  tea-hour,  not  necessarily  to  drink  tea.  Always  I 
looked  around  to  see  if  there  was  anything  eligible 
for  Beechey's  springtime,  as  men  come  to  these  parties 
and  do  not  roar  for  a  cocktail.  And,  of  course,  I 
continued  searching  for  an  Englishwoman  Vvho  would 
call  me  by  my  first  name  without  dying  of  embarrass- 
ment.   I  had  known  so  many  of  them  for  so  many 

2aS 


COUNTRY    INNS    ANU    JOY-KIUES — HISTOKV    WITHUIT    ANY    STRAIN 
ON   THE    INTELLKCT 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

years,  and  loved  tKem  so  much,  and  I  was  still  Mrs. 
Closser-Hale. 

Strangely  enough,  the  very  one  I  picked  out  to  call 
me  Louise  I  met  in  a  lovely  studio  in  Knightsbridge. 
It  was  in  the  spring,  so  I  suppose  we  make  friends  at 
the  budding  hour  just  as  we  find  best  young  men. 
Yes,  and  she  now  calls  me  Louise,  although  she  is 
more  brash  with  the  name  when  she  writes  it  down 
in  notes.  It  is  pleasant  to  reflect,  however,  that  she 
will  be  calling  me  by  my  first  name  for  ever  and  a  day, 
and  not  returning  as  early  as  August  to  the  more 
formal  address,  as  some  lovers  do.  That  is  one  of  the 
joys  of  friendship.  All  demonstrative  signs  of  it  are 
hurriedly  put  aside  when  one  takes  on  a  love-affair, 
yet  the  friendship  is  not  forgotten;  just  laid  on  a  shelf 
for  safe-keeping,  perhaps.  And  when  the  lover  slips 
away  with  the  season,  the  more  stable  form  of  affec- 
tion is  found,  as  glowing  as  ever,  impervious  to  the 
chill  of  winter. 

I  wish  more  women  had  the  talent — and  the  courage 
— for  making  wann,  personal  friends  of  men.  It  takes 
talent,  but  it  must  be  cultivated.  The  mean  art  of 
coquetiy  which  we  for  long  believed  to  be  the  only 
alliu-e  to  hold  the  animal  is  no  part  of  that  talent. 
It  would  frighten  them  and  they  would  bound  away. 
And  it  takes  courage,  for  half  the  world  will  believe 
she  is  trying  to  ensnare  him,  and  our  pride  is  so  im- 
mense, especially  when  we  are  not  much  loved.  Yet 
I  think  the  disquiet  in  many  a  woman's  lonely  breast 
would  be  allayed  if  she  had  the  simplest  of  companion- 
ship with  some  one  not  of  her  sex.  And  how  nice  it 
would  be  for  him!  He  could  spend  hours  telling  her  all 
about  his  love-affairs. 

The  fiction-writer  would  have  these  two  fall  in 

239 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

love,  but  the  qualities  of  mind  and  heart  that  would 
bring  them  together  have  nothing  to  do  with  passion. 
I  knew  one  man  and  woman,  after  years  of  friend- 
ship, to  expand,  as  they  first  called  it,  into  a  closer 
association,  and  the  world  stopped  for  them.  They 
had  nothing  to  talk  about,  nothing  to  laugh  at. 
Very  wonderfully  they  forswore  each  other,  with 
enthusiasm,  and  went  back  to  being  friends  once 
more.  But  some  of  us  would  have  shattered  the 
amethystine  vase. 

The  pursuit  of  a  young  man  for  Beechey  very  nearly 
ruined  my  prospects  of  the  acquirement  of  an  English- 
woman friend  for  me,  and  that  they  were  not  ruined, 
that  she  did  develop  into  a  friend,  may  have  been  for 
the  reason  that  she  turned  out  to  be  a  Canadian. 
While  you  are  in  the  United  States  you  may  think 
there  is  not  much  difference  between  an  English- 
woman and  a  Canadian,  but  over  here  you  find  that  it 
is  an  abyss  not  to  be  spanned  by  bridges  of  airships. 

This  lady,  after  seeing  the  play,  had  sent  me  a 
letter  to  the  theater,  signing  a  name  that  we  all  know 
in  fiction,  and  wondering  if  London  was  too  great 
for  us  to  meet,  and  behold!  she  was  my  neighbor, 
living  behind  a  very  clean  green  door  across  the  square. 
I  was  anxious  to  meet  her  and  make  a  good  impression, 
which  meant  conducting  myself  with  decorum  up  to 
and  during  the  first  rencontre.  If  you  ever  become  a 
friend  to  an  Englishwoman,  you  can  do  any  scandalous 
thing  afterward  you  please.  ''She  is  my  friend,"  the 
Englishwoman  will  say,  and  therefore  must  be  right. 

But  on  the  night  before  I  was  to  juggle  with  the 
tea-cup,  thin  bread  and  butter,  jam  (perhaps),  sugar 
(barely  prol^able),  and  elegant  convei'sation,  an  Amer- 
ican presented  himself  at  our  stage-door  with  a  letter 

240 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

of  introduction  which  pronounced  him  to  be  a  bachelor, 
a  New  York  business  man,  and  therefore  excellent  for 
Beechey.  I  reviewed  the  costume  Beechey  had  worn 
at  dinner,  and  would  probably  be  wearing  on  my  re- 
turn. It  was  a  dull  blue,  smocked  wherever  possible, 
with  sandals  worn  over  a  pair  of  my  silk  stockings, 
the  whole  effect  quite  appealing — according  to  my 
theory  of  opposites — to  a  New  York  business  man  very 
natty  in  correct  evening  dress. 

I  decided  to  invite  him  home,  although  I  could  not 
think  of  anything  for  supper  except  cold  haddock, 
but  if  we  waited  long  enough,  Beechey  woi^ld  bring 
up  the  chafing-dish,  bring  up  the  methylated  spirits, 
set  fire  to  the  table-cloth,  spill  the  milk,  do  all  those 
engaging  things  that  should  attract  a  man  who  never 
had  a  spot  on  his  shirt-front  in  his  life,  with  the  effort 
ending  in  a  melange  which  Beechey  called  a  cheese 
fondu.  Therefore  I  asked  him  to  drive  home  in  my 
four-wheeler,  w^hich  might  be  induced  to  wait  and 
take  him  back  again  to  the  Ritz. 

It  ended  in  dismissing  the  growler  and  driving  home 
in  his  own  motor,  the  largest  one  in  the  world.  I  was 
quite  apologetic  when  I  realized  the  enormity  of  his 
general  scheme  of  living.  I  warned  him  that  he 
would  find  it  dull  in  Chelsea,  but  he  replied  easily 
that  no  doubt  two  Americans  could  stir  things  up 
even  in  a  Chelsea  Square.  I  should  have  got  down 
then  and  there  and  taken  the  Tube,  for  with  his  smiling 
assurance  a  conviction  came  to  me  that  this  kind  of 
young  American  was  sure  to  stir  up  things,  whether 
he  meant  to  or  not.  And  while  I  admired  it,  I  would 
prefer  the  stir  to  take  place  in  our  own  countiy. 

It  began  quietly  enougli— the  stir.  The  chauffeur 
admitted  when  we  reached  the  house  that  the  lights 

241 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

were  low  and  it  would  take  some  few  minutes  to 
look  after  the  batteries.  ''Will  it  make  a  noise?"  I 
asked,  for  an  English  conservatism  was  creeping  over 
me.  I  could  hear  the  N.  Y.  B.  M.  (New  York  business 
man)  chuckle  as  I  asked  the  question.  But  the  driver's 
reply  was  reassuring.  The  next  mild  commotion  was 
calling  for  Beechey,  to  be  answered  by  angry  Pome- 
ranians, for  no  artistic  mousey-eyed  girl  came  to  greet 
us,  and,  upon  feeling  my  way  in  and  leading  the  N.  Y. 
B.  M.,  both  of  us  falling  unpropitiously  over  the  an- 
cient wedding-chest,  a  note  was  discovered  to  the 
effect  that  she  had  gone  to  spend  the  night  with  a 
sick  friend. 

Beechey  had  placed  the  note  where  I  would  be 
most  apt  to  see  it.  It  was  stabbed  do^vn  to  the  cold 
haddock  with  a  hair-pin!  I  did  not  know,  until 
recriminations  set  in  upon  her  return  next  day,  that 
the  hair-pin  was  taken  from  a  new  packet,  and  my 
supper  guest  will  never  know.  Strictly  speaking,  I 
should  not  call  him  my  supper  guest,  as  he  ate  no 
supper  after  discovering  the  impaled  fish.  Although 
he  laughed  a  good  deal,  I  found  it  difficult  to  outline 
to  him  Beechey's  delicious  qualities  and  appearance, 
with  only  the  hair-pin  episode  for  him  to  build  on. 
As  I  saw  him,  alert,  successful,  anxious  in  his  newness 
to  be  correct,  I  wondered  what  he  would  do  to  a  wife 
who  pinned  notes  to  fish  for  his  New  York  supper 
friends  to  see,  even  as  I  did  not  have  to  wonder  how 
the  leading  man  would  act  when  I  recounted  this 
discovery  of  my  midnight  visitor.  For  he  became  a 
midnight  visitor,  and  an  after-midnight  visitor,  and 
still  the  ignition  remained  unresponsive.  Toward 
one  o'clock  the  chauffeur  rapped  a  perfectly  new  rap 
with  the  knocker,  awakening  the  dog  next  door,  the 

242 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

Pomeranians,  and  my  landlady,  to  say  he  would  have 
to  go  to  the  garage  for  assistance. 

''Perhaps,"  I  suggested  to  the  N.  Y.  B.  M.,  ''you 
would  like  to  walk  down?  " 

"Walk!    I  don't  know  the  way,"  he  protested. 

I  forebore  to  tell  him  that  I  had  a  map,  and  on  we 
plunged  into  conversational  depths.  We  gave  to  each 
other  slices  of  our  history  that  up  till  then  had  been 
a  secret,  not  divulging  this  decause  we  found  ourselves 
affinities,  but  for  the  terridle  reason  that  the  coal- 
scuttle was  empty,  the  oil  stove  was  smelling,  and  we 
were  talking  against  time.  By  two  o'clock  that 
morning  I  was  ready,  with  an  understanding  hitherto 
denied  me,  to  make  allowances  for  the  indiscretions 
of  many  characters  in  fiction  stranded  on  islands  or 
missing  last  trains.  I  would  tell  this  man  anything 
to  keep  him  interested.  I  would  make  up  anything. 
At  two-fifteen,  as  I  was  about  to  engage  him  with  the 
information  that  none  of  my  family  could  read  or 
write,  and  two  of  them  were  hanged,  the  silence  of 
our  correct  little  square  was  broken  by  a  series  of  ex- 
plosions. We  both  thought  of  air  raids,  and  wondered 
if  the  Huns  had  come  over  for  a  last  shoot-up.  Neither 
of  us  cared,  so  long  as  one  or  the  other  was  killed. 
The  New  York  business  man  dismissed  this  pleasing 
hope  first.  Yet  a  satisfaction  crept  over  his  tired  face, 
for  it  was  his  car  waking  up  my  Chelsea  Square. 

We  rushed  to  the  window  and  saw,  wheeling  around 
a  far  corner,  his  huge  leviathan  hitched  to  one  even 
greater,  a  truck  of  vast  proportions,  making  a  tour  of 
our  park  with  the  e\'ident  idea  of  turning  the  engine 
over  by  the  rapidity  of  motion.  The  muffler  was  cut 
out,  blue  fire  blazed  from  beneath  both  chassis,  and 
the  explosions  were  continual.    Around  and  around 

213 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

these  mad  joy-riders  went.  We  could  see  lights  ap- 
pear at  upper  windows,  and  heads  stuck  out,  like  the 
scene  from  ^'The  Mastersingers."  The  house  of  the 
correct  novelist  on  whom  I  was  to  call  became  a  blaze 
of  inquiring  lights. 

''You  must  go  home,"  I  sternly  told  my  guest. 

''I  can't,"  he  replied.  ''I  can't  go  down  to  the 
Ritz  on  a  battery  in  action." 

''You  can  detach  the  truck  and  ride  down  in  it.  " 

"To  the  Ritz!'' 

"Then  sit  in  your  car  and  let  the  truck  tow  you 
down." 

"How  would  it  look?" 

"I  don't  care  how  it  looks,"  I  snapped.  "How  does 
this  look?" 

"I  don't  know  how  it  looks.  It  sounds  like  Fourth 
of  July." 

"Then  go  outside  and  enjoy  yourself,"  I  contended, 
crossly.  "I  am  sorry,  but  for  the  sake  of  appearances 
I  can't  have  you  staying  here  any  longer."  There  was 
no  reason  why  I  should  not  exhibit  my  temper  before 
this  young  man;  I  had  revealed  everything  else  in 
my  life  to  him. 

He  behaved  remarkably,  as  if  he  were  confused, 
not  at  my  bad  temper,  for  he  expected  nothing  of  a 
family  who  couldn't  read  or  write  and  had  mostly 
died  on  the  gallows,  but,  rather,  at  the  evidences  of 
my  moral  worth.  "I  thought  you  were  a  Bohemian," 
he  stammered. 

I  felt  hopeless.  "East  is  East  and  West  is  West," 
passed  through  my  mind.  Because  Beechey  had 
stabbed  the  fish  with  a  hair-pin,  because  I  was  on 
the  stage,  because  we  do  many  unconventional  things 
in  life,  since  we  haven't  the  money  to  be  conventional 

214 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

and  comfortable  at  the  same  time,  the  "outsider" 
(as  the  theater  calls  the  humble  business  man)  thinks 
we  haven't  anj'^  laws  of  any  kind. 

They  don't  understand  at  all — they  never  will. 
If  they  did  they  wouldn't  be  business  men,  so  kind  and 
able,  and  helping  us  out  of  many  difficulties  by  their 
advice.  They  would  be  artists  like  ourselves,  and  we 
would  all  starve  to  death  in  a  week  or  so,  for  there 
would  be  no  one  to  purchase  our  wares.  My  mind 
raced  on.  Suppose  Beechey  had  met  and,  of  course, 
married  him?  Suppose  they  had  had  a  little  son  with 
his  mother's  love  of  painting,  whom  his  father  insisted 
on  putting  in  the  business.  What  a  heartbreak  that 
would  be  for  the  boy,  and  for  Beechey,  and  for  the 
father,  as  the  lad  would  never  make  a  business  man. 

So  my  answer  to  his  query  would  have  been  oracular 
to  him  if  the  engine  had  not  turned  over  at  that  especial 
moment.  For,  thinking  of  Beechey,  I  ejaculated, 
fervently,  "Saved!"  and  the  New  York  business  man 
let  his  eye  rest  pityingly  upon  my  ancient  frame 
under  the  impression  that  I  was  referring  to  the  pres- 
ervation of  my  good  name. 

The  truck  was  detached,  and  his  big  motor  purred 
at  the  door.  I  was  speeding  the  parting  guest  as 
speedily  as  I  could,  piloting  him  around  that  sneering 
wedding-chest,  and  while  I  couldn't  see  his  face,  his 
cordial  voice  still  rang  out  cheerfully  to  the  further 
annoyance  of  the  Poms,  "I  said  two  Americans  would 
stir  things  up,  didn't  I?" 

"You  stirred  up  more  than  a  noise,"  was  my  fare- 
well. 

I  suppose  he  thought  it  was  my  aged  heart,  but  it 
wasn't.  It  was  a  question  as  to  the  fallibility  of  my 
Theory  of  Opposites. 

245 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

The  next  day,  when  I  called  upon  my  neighbor 
(the  stranger,  upon  invitation,  calls  first  in  this  coun- 
try), the  butler  said  she  was  not  at  home,  which  did 
not  surprise  me  at  all,  but  he  added  that  I  must  come 
up,  anyivay,  as  I  was  expected.  Her  delay  may  have 
been  one  way  of  expressing  her  disapproval,  yet  she 
was  not  unrepresented  in  that  pleasant  drawling-room 
which  looked  out  upon  the  stubborn  plane-trees,  re- 
fusing to  leaf,  over  toward  our  purple  door.  Another 
woman  who  writes  and  whom  Americans  read  was 
waiting  also,  and  as  she  had  not  kicked  up  any  kind 
of  rumpus  the  night  before  the  tardiness  of  the  hostess 
was  probably  not  a  punishment. 

I  liked  this  woman  immediately,  and  hoped  she 
would  become,  possibly,  a  second  English  friend  who 
would  call  me  Louise.  She  had  been  to  see  our  play, 
and  said  the  right  things  about  it — only  actors  can 
say  the  right  things  about  a  play,  as  a  rule — more 
than  that,  she  was  not  hidebound  by  conservatism. 
She  fought  against  it  with  all  the  power  she  could 
summon,  hampered,  as  she  was,  by  an  Oxford  accent. 
She  told  me  of  her  little  son,  who  had  wanted  the 
umbrella  up  because  the  other  people  in  the  street  had 
their  umbrellas  up.  She  said  they  walked  the  full 
length  of  the  street  after  that,  although  it  did  begin 
to  rain,  to  encourage  his  individualism.  ''We  are  doing 
it  because  it  is  different,"  she  told  his  correct  little 
self. 

This  pleased  but  confused  me.  It  confused  me,, 
too,  the  way  she  answered  questions  with  her  Oxford 
voice.  She  never  said  yes  or  no.  She  said,  ''I  did," 
or  "I  did  not,"  and  I  could  no  more  analyze  it  than 
I  could  my  sudden  heaping  of  confidences  upon  her, 
not  because  it  was  past  midnight,  but  for  the  reason 

246 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

that  she  seemed  enormously  interested  in  me.  She 
laughed  at  my  jokes,  too.  When  a  writer  smiles  cau- 
tiously at  your  humor  you  had  better  hurry  it  into 
print  before  he  gets  ahead  of  you.  But  if  he  laughs 
he  is  enjoying  the  moment,  and  will  forget.  It  is 
hard  to  store  up  and  laugh  at  the  same  time. 

I  found  out  the  cause  of  this  sudden  precipitation 
of  myself  at  this  lady  and  of  her  unembarrassed  ac- 
ceptance of  my  confidences.  I  had  found  it  out  after 
the  hostess  came  in,  gay  and  apologetic,  and  perfectly 
delighted  over  the  noise  of  the  night  before.  Nothing 
so  exciting  had  happened  since  the  great  fog,  she  said, 
\^■hen  a  bus  turned  into  the  square  and  kept  creeping 
around  under  the  impression  that  it  was  twisting  along 
the  highway.  ''My  husband  was  one  of  the  passen- 
gers, too,  wondering  when  he  was  going  to  get  home. 
The  petrol  gave  out,  and  they  settled  down  in  front 
of  our  house.  He  went  to  sleep,  and  when  the  fog 
lifted  at  dawn  I  discovered  him,  and  sent  out  a  tin 
of  hot  shaving-water.  He  said  he  had  known  funnier 
things — but  then,  he  is  English." 

"Aren't  you?" 

In  this  way  I  learned  that  she  was  Canadian,  and 
my  other  new  acquaintance  in  the  room  was — why 
didn't  I  realize  it  before? — Irish!  Unless  our  Irish 
friends  speak  with  a  brogue  as  thick  as  the  Russell 
brothers,  we  Americans  find  them  only  through  the 
warm,  uneven  qualities  of  their  hearts.  I  use  ''un- 
even" wrongly  perhaps.  Their  race  partizanship  is 
so  intense  that  the  Irish  may  be  fiercely  on  your  side 
so  long  as  you  are  on  their  side,  but  diverge  by  so 
much  as  a  laughing  criticism  of  their  own  people 
and  they  are  arrayed  against  you  in  a  tumult  of  words. 

I  met  a  young  Dublin  University  man  who  was  once 

17  247 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

a  papist,  now  is  no  longer  a  papist,  and  will  probably 
send  for  the  priest  and  the  holy  oils  when  he  hears  the 
wings  of  Death.  He  asked  me  whether  I  had  ever 
been  granted  an  audience  with  the  Holy  Father,  and 
I  answered  him  as  one  practical  American  would  speak 
to  another.  I  told  him  that  ''I  had  tickets  for  Leo, 
but  didn't  get  up." 

He  clasped  his  hand  to  his  forehead.  "Oh,  you 
Americans!  The  like  of  a  circus!  Tickets  for  Leo, 
tickets  for  Leo — and  didn't  get  up!" 

But  had  he  announced  he  had  tickets  for  Leo  it 
would  have  been  all  right.  It  was  his  Pope,  and  he 
could  say  what  he  liked  about  him. 

I  determined  that  I  would  take  no  chances  with 
my  new  Irish  friend,  although  she  showed  a  detached 
point  of  view  as  to  the  Irish  question  that  encouraged 
agreement  with  her.  I  remember  on  that  first  after- 
noon our  speaking  of  the  patience  of  English  crowds, 
how  submissively  they  allowed  themselves  to  be 
packed  upon  a  sidewalk  to  watch  a  passing  show  in 
the  street  which  only  those  at  the  curb  would  really 
see.  It  would  not  be  so  in  Ireland,  she  had  said. 
"  It  would  not?  "  ''It  would  not,"  she  rephed.  "Every 
man  of  them  \A'ho  couldn't  see  would  be  making  a 
speech  against  those  who  could.  By  the  time  the 
King  came  along  they  would  all  be  fighting,  and  no 
one  would  know  that  he  had  passed." 

"They  are  always  fighting,  aren't  they?"  I  said, 
smiling  agreeably. 

"They  are  not,"  with  a  flash  of  the  eye. 

I  had  spoken  of  the  crowds  of  Maundy  Thursday 
who  had  packed  around  Westminster  Abbey  in  the 
faint  hope,  perhaps,  that  the  King's  dole  of  sliver 
might  be  extended  to  others  than  the  selected  poor 

248 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

within.  On  this  day  I  but  stuck  my  nose  in  the 
Abbey,  and  saw  over  the  heads  of  the  people  the  lances 
of  the  Yeomen  of  the  Guard  as  they  escorted  His 
Majesty  toward  a  number  of  old  folk  slicked  up  for 
the  occasion  who  were  decided  by  the  parish  to  be 
worthy  of  the  gift. 

-  Just  why  this  honor  should  fall  upon  the  parish  of 
Westminster  I  don't  know  (and  where  is  Eastminster, 
by  the  way?  And  Middleminster?  And  Minster 
Center?),  but  I  should  think  all  the  old  'uns  of  Lon- 
don would  move  into  the  neighborhood,  and  by  a 
combination  of  extreme  poverty  and  extreme  piety 
hope  for  individual  preferment  before  they  die.  For 
the  Maundy  Thursday  dole  will  go  on  as  long  as 
British  sovereigns  endure,  and  every  year  the  reporters 
will  write  of  it  just  as  they  yearly  chronicle  the  spring, 
the  last  snowfall,  the  first  cuckoo,  the  Derby,  the  open- 
ing of  the  shooting  season,  ditto  of  Parliament,  and 
the  endless  round  of  what  has  always  been.  The 
contemplation  of  these  reportorial  duties  staring  an 
English  journalist  in  his  morning  face  must  make  him 
more  perfectly  comprehend  the  Frenchman  who  cut 
his  throat  at  the  prospect  of  taking  off  his  shoes  and 
stockings  every  night  and  putting  them  on  every 
morning. 

I  like  old  customs,  but  this  faint  replica  of  the 
humble  duties  of  our  Lord  is  one  that  could  be  more 
honored  in  the  breach  than  the  observance.  At  least, 
I  should  imagine  King  George  would  feel  that  way, 
yet  it  could  be  worse  for  him.  Among  the  few  sover- 
eigns that  are  left  upon  the  face  of  Europe  some  are 
busily  engaged  on  Maundy  Thursday  scrubbing  feet. 
I  did  not  scrub  feet,  but  I  had  a  matinee  for  Lenten 
penance,  and  I  edged  out  of  the  crowd  nervously  and 

249 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

sought  the  doorway  leading  from  the  cloisters,  a  sort 
of  stage-door  of  the  Abbey,  through  which  the  King 
was  to  come  out.  It  is  the  only  entrance  used  by 
royalty  that  does  not  bother  with  a  red  carpet — even 
Buckingham  Palace  runs  its  strip  down  to  the  gravel. 
I  speculated  upon  the  possible  indignation  of  the 
royalties  within  when  their  sole-leather  would  aston- 
ishingly conflict  with  cold  stone.  '^Wliat!  No  red 
carpet!"  an  earlier  monarch  might  have  exclaimed. 
''Off  with  his  head!" 

Yet  even  they  would  not  have  exclaimed  it  aloud. 
It  is  something  for  the  scoffer  of  whatever  gods  there 
be  to  dwell  upon:  this  fear  of  vain  kings  of  the  con- 
demnation of  the  Church,  and  of  their  penances  when 
they  flouted  it,  and  of  the  deference  they  tremblingly 
paid  to  little  priests  of  small  beginnings  who  bravely 
attacked  them.  Even  that  man  of  earth,  Henry  VIII, 
dared  not  break  away  entirely  from  ecclesiastical 
forms,  and  had  the  Church  of  England  all  neatly 
established  before  moving  out  of  the  house  of  the 
Popes— and  taking  his  wives  with  him. 

This  fateful  thought  came  to  me  as  I  waited  for  the 
King  along  with  the  photographers  and  a  little  knot 
of  men  and  women,  and  with  a  wave  of  comic  despair 
I  realized  that  even  the  Church  of  England  had  for 
a  background  the  love  of  man  for  woman.  I  find  I 
have  recorded  in  my  line-a-day  journal,  ''One  might 
think  on  Maundy  Thursday  at  Westminster  I  could 
escape  this  sex  business,  but  if  it  hadn't  been  for 
Anne  Boleyn  there  wouldn't  have  been  any  Abbey 
at  all." 

It  was  very  sweet  and  springlike  in  this  court- 
yard, with  the  trim  houses  of  ecclesiastics  all  about 
and  neat  maids  going  in  and  out  the  archway,  as 

250 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

though  there  was  no  domestic  problem  for  them,  and 
heaven  was  their  home.  A  whole  ton  of  coal  lumbered 
in,  and  we  all  looked  at  it  enviously.  I  forbore  to  ask 
if  it  was  to  be  a  present  to  the  King.  Indeed  it  was 
the  only  ton  of  coal  I  have  seen  treated  contemptu- 
ously. For  the  chief  detective,  in  a  beautifully  braided 
coat,  said  it  couldn't  wait  there  among  the  royal 
carriages,  and  off  it  rumbled,  very  hurt,  under  the 
impression  that  it  was  the  real  King  Cole. 

I  interrogated  the  old  coachman  of  one  of  the  royal 
carriages  that  remained  triumphant,  asking  him  if 
any  one  else  ever  painted  their  carriage  with  the  deep- 
red  body  and  scarlet  lines  of  royalty,  and  he  replied, 
"Never,  madam,"  very  fervently.  "But  what  if  they 
would?"  I  pursued.  And  he  gathered  up  his  reins 
and  drove  his  horses  out  of  the  area  of  such  disturb- 
ing thoughts. 

Abashed  by  the  royal  coachman,  I  merged  myself 
in  the  little  crowd  who  were  whispering  among  them- 
selves in  that  hushed  way  people  do  when  waiting 
for  sovereigns.  Two  women  were  talking  together 
about  a  third — oh,  undoubtedly  about  a  third,  for 
the  import  of  their  words  was  mighty:  "They  can't 
afford  another;  they  can't  afford  it!" 

"They  couldn't  afford  the  first — j^et  every  spring — " 

She  sounded  a  "  tck-tck  "  of  disapproval.    It  made  me 

sorry  for  this  third  M^oman  who  wasn't  there.    Why 

is  it,  when  all  the  wonders  of  spring  are  so  welcome, 

1:hat  a  baby,  the  greatest  wonder  of  all,  can't  be  as 

eagerly  watched  for?    Why  can't  all  earth's  greenery 

be  as  tenderly  nurtured  as  the  young  trees  in  a  city's 

park?    What  is  a  country's  yearly  forestry  bill  and  the 

yearly  bill  for  that  country's  unwanted  little  ones? 

Again  one  speculates. 

251 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

The  royal  family  were  coming  out.  The  coachmen 
removed  their  hats,  still  wonderfully  manipulating  the 
reins.  The  photographers  advanced,  lifting  their 
bowlers  also,  and  begged  for  pause.  The  family  took 
leave  of  the  Dean  as  the  little  cranks  of  the  moving- 
picture  apparatuses  made  history.  The  institution 
of  the  photographic  machine  is  now  quietly  accepted 
as  part  of  every  ceremony.  There  is  no  longer  sur- 
prise or  bridling,  or  vexed  impatience.  We  have 
washed  feet,  opened  Parliament,  become  a  Fish- 
monger or  a  Cloth  Draper  or  a  Mason,  and  now  we 
stand  for  a  minute  while  this  process  of  absolute 
confinnation  is  being  employed. 

Old  fighting  warriors  who  don't  care  twopence  about 
their  pictures  stand  submissively  before  going  into 
battle,  and  the  wounded  lift  their  heads  from  their 
cots  and  take  an  interest  with  a  dying  smile.  The 
only  voices  recently  raised  in  protest  were  those  at 
the  Foundling  Hospital  when  lusty-lunged  babies 
roared  in  unison  at  a  flashlight,  while  their  own  Queen 
Mary  held  the  most  indignant  of  them  in  her  arms. 
When  they  are  grown-up  foundlings  and  view  this 
moving  picture — if  indeed  it  is  still  moving — they 
will  take  shame  of  themselves  at  this  unique  display 
of  concerted  cavernous  mouths. 

But  that  was  the  end  of  Maundy  Thursday  for  me. 
I  caught  a  taxi  and  reached  the  theater  just  as  they 
were  again  growing  anxious,  so  perhaps  it  was  as  well 
that  only  one  member  of  the  company  cared  to  see 
the  sights  of  London  Town.  Yet  I  had  been  but  once 
before  to  the  Abbey  on  this  visit,  for  now  that  I  was 
part  of  London  I  no  longer  sat  in  the  Poets'  Corner 
and  tried  to  think  thoughts.  On  tliis  occasion  tickets 
admitted  the  American  novelist  and  myself  to  the 

252 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

Poets'  Comer,  and  we  walked  around  the  little  door 
of  the  south  transept  by  Parliament  Yard.  There 
was  a  great  yellow  motor  at  the  door,  from  which  an 
American  woman  married  to  a  nobleman  was  de- 
scending. But  most  of  us  were  on  foot,  and  looking 
very  much  like  what  we  were — Americans.  For  this 
was  the  day  of  the  prayers  for  our  dead. 

All  through  February  and  March  various  services 
had  been  held  in  viemoriam  for  men  fallen  in  battle. 
A  great  gathering  had  been  held  at  St.  Paul's  for  the 
journalists  and  writers,  and  a  lesser  one  at  the  Abbey 
for  the  British  actors,  which  I  had  wanted  mightily 
to  attend.  But  that  was  the  day  we  wore  our  make- 
ups through  the  noon  hours  while  flashhght  pictures 
were  taken  of  our  play,  and  unresistingly  we  went  to 
the  theater,  just  as  those  six  hundred  fallen  actors 
would  have  done  had  they  been  summoned.  It  was 
at  least  our  line  of  duty. 

The  church  on  the  day  for  our  dead  w^as  packed  by 
a  solemn  mass  of  men  and  women  from  over  the  water. 
I  didn't  know  there  could  be  so  many,  but  I  under- 
stand that  there  were  twenty  thousand  working  here 
on  various  missions  during  the  war.  There  was  the 
glitter  of  admirals  and  generals  before  the  high  altar, 
and  the  brighter  colors  of  the  representatives  of  powers 
and  potentates.  Our  soldiers  and  sailors  filed  in 
methodically,  fine,  grim  boys,  and  I  wondered  how 
any  one  could  be  but  glad  that  they  were  still  alive; 
yet  I  have  heard  a  man  deplore  that  we  Americans 
had  not  suffered  more.  Hasn't  the  world  had  its  full 
quota  of  pain — can  any  one  wish  for  a  greater  kilhng 
of  any  human  beings  or  poor  dumb  beasts  of  any 
country — even  their  ally,  America? 

The  enormous  dignity  of  the  service  filled  me  with 

253 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

awe,  yet  we  of  the  United  States,  crude,  new,  anxious, 
were  not  unfitted  to  the  wide  spaces  of  a  cathedral. 
Other  pilgrims  have  bowed  before  this  altar,  and  they 
were  simple  people,  too.  Never  for  centuries  have  they 
been  turned  away  from  this  House  of  God,  and  on 
this  day  we  were  gathered  to  say  a  prayer,  not  for  our- 
selves, but  for  the  men  who  knew  the  wider  spaces 
of  our  great  out-of-doors. 

It  is  when  I  am  in  an  ancient  building  of  an  older 
civilization  than  ours  that  always  there  recurs  to  me 
pictures  of  our  open  plains,  our  farthest  mountains, 
and  tall  pines  of  the  Northwest.  For  I  find  these 
buildings  and  these  visions  similar,  not  contrasting. 
Once  I  asked  a  Roman  prince  whom  I  met  in  a  Wes- 
tern mining-camp  if  he  did  not  honestly  miss  the 
pomp  and  age-old  beauty  of  his  father's  house,  and 
he  said  that  he  never  missed  them  so  long  as  he  worked 
in  the  open  and  slept  under  the  stars. 

Just  so,  in  some  teasing  way,  through  the  intoning 
of  the  service,  the  swell  of  the  organ,  the  chant  of  the 
singers,  my  mind  reverted  to  the  army  posts  of  the 
Far  West,  of  the  cool  of  the  evening  at  the  fringe  of 
our  deserts,  of  the  morning  light  on  our  highest  moun- 
tain peaks.  It  came  insistently  and  comfortingly,  as 
though  the  early  makers  of  the  Abbey  could  more 
understandingly  embrace  our  unformed  new  nation 
than  can  these  exquisite  peoples  of  later  years. 

The  service  drew  to  its  close.  From  some  place 
high,  high  up  in  the  vaulted  edifice  British  buglers 
sounded  the  T^ast  Call  for  our  American  men.  I 
may  never  hear  more  celestial  music,  yet  the  echo 
that  came  to  my  ears  was  the  faint  'Haps"  sounded 
over  a  sandy  grave  which^ — I  could  see  quite  plainly — • 
lay  in  some  sweet  open  place  at  home. 

254 


Chapter  XVI 

A  FTER  Maundy  Thursday  came,  as  inevitable  as 
aLa  the  seasons,  Good  Friday,  variously  observed 
JL  JL  by  various  people,  and  joyfully  all  mine, 
for  in  London  on  that  day  theaters  are  closed  and 
I  could  roam  through  the  hours  without  a  watch  in 
my  hand. 

Did  I  go  to  church?  No,  I  did  not  go  to  church. 
For  it  was  spring,  it  was  full-throated  spring.  The 
trees  were  green,  the  sun  did  shine,  there  were  seats, 
wonderfully  enough,  on  the  top  of  a  bus  that  led  to 
Hampstead  Heath,  and  Beechey  and  I  went  out  to 
enjoy  the  crowd  gathering  for  Easter  Monday  while 
they  could  yet  be  enjoyed.  Easter  Monday  was  a 
Bank  Holiday,  which  I  suppose,  upon  analysis,  means 
that  the  banks  are  closed.  Although  up  to  this  very 
moment  I  have  interpreted  "bank"  as  the  kind 
whereon  the  wild  thyme  grows.  As  all  London  flies 
to  these  sweet  slopes  much  more  affectionately  than 
they  do  to  the  granite  buildings — even  to  draw  money 
— it  is  not  a  very  serious  misreading  of  a  national 
holiday. 

A  crowd  is  good,  but  one  can  have  too  much  of  a 
good  thing,  and  by  Monday  it  would  have  been  im- 
possible. Already  one  mother  with  a  trail  of  crying 
children  had  found  it  too  much.  She  was  waiting  at 
the  Heath  to  pack  them  on  to  the  bus  as  we  descended. 
"Never  agyne,"  she  was  exclaiming  as  I  helped  the 


AN  AIMERICAN'S  LONDON 

weeping  ones  on,  "never  agyne.  I  says  it  every  year." 
I  thought  how  often  we  say  "Never  agyne,"  every 
spring  we  say  it,  and  when  we  have  grown  too  old 
for  the  exclamation  we  feel  the  loss  of  that  very  ache 
in  our  hearts,  and  scratch  around  among  the  young 
for  vicarious  romances. 

Oh,  I  was  broken  on  the  wheel  by  the  time  spring 
came  singing  into  England,  for  one  cannot  love  life 
and  not  want  those  in  life  to  be  loved  each  after  his 
own  fashion  and  according  to  his  years.  But  I  had 
to  come  to  England  to  find  that  out.  When  I  was 
not  planning  a  love-affair  for  Beechey  I  Avas  sizing 
up  the  landlady,  with  very  little  to  encourage  me. 
Mrs.  Hacking,  when  not  mourning  for  her  husband, 
was — so  the  village  of  London  gossiped — carrying  on 
with  a  potman  who  is  the  gentleman  wot  washes 
the  glasses  at  a  pub— the  pub  where  my  shillings  were 
changed  to  pennies  for  the  gas-meter  every  noon. 
I  was  enjoying  this  form  of  romantic  activity,  and 
knew  I  must  no  longer  oppose  it,  for  the  fruit  of  the 
tree  is  knowledge,  and  I  had  eaten  of  the  fruit.  And 
there  is  a  certain  pleasure  to  be  derived  from  dis- 
seminating for  the  good  of  others  that  which  you 
yourself  have  acquired  through  various  painful  bites 
of  the  apple. 

Now,  the  disseminating  of  wisdom  can  be  a  stodgy 
business,  made  up  of  don'ts  to  be  found  in  the  back  of 
any  dictionary,  or  it  may  be  a  real  exercise  of  sym- 
pathies, and  therein  lies  whatever  of  the  game  there 
is  for  us  old  'uns.  It  is  something  to  say,  with  the 
esthetic  Hedda  Gabler,  if  you  have  been  busting  up 
Love's  Young  Dream,  at  least  you  have  done  it 
beautifully. 

The  opportunities  were  rich  on  Good  Friday.    No 

256 


AN  AINIERICAN'S  LONDON 

sooner  had  we  reached  the  first  ''Cokernut-Shy" 
than  we  ran  across  a  baronet  we  knew.  It  was  no 
place  to  meet  a  baronet,  accordmg  to  novels,  but  he 
was  taking  his  Httle  dog  out  for  a  walk,  so  that  it 
could  grow  accustomed  to  its  muzzle.  A  new  edict 
has  gone  forth  this  spring  that  all  dogs  must  be 
muzzled  all  the  time.  With  the  Briton's  trained  ac- 
ceptance of  a  ruling  the  people  stormed  the  shops 
upon  the  dogs'  last  glad  day,  great  queues  were 
waiting  for  muzzles,  and  proud  canines,  like  our  Poms, 
sat  up  as  late  as  midnight  waiting  for  the  exhausted 
muzzle  man  to  come  and  measure  them. 

''We  have  our  muzzles  made  to  order,"  I  heard 
them  barking  to  the  little  wiry-haired  fellow  next 
door,  who  wore  a  hand-me-down.  Even  their  fond 
mistress  stopped  their  boasting,  for  we  were  all 
troubled  over  the  dog  next  door.  It  was  rumored  his 
folks  never  took  his  muzzle  off,  as  it  was  too  much 
bother,  and  my  kind  landlady  was  conniving  to  buy 
him  through  a  medium  unknown  to  her  neighbor. 
But  this  indifference  to  the  welfare  of  dumb  beasts 
is  more  rare  in  England  than  in  America.  A  driver 
on  the  street  can  never  lay  a  lash  across  the  back  of 
his  horse  without  a  cry  of  protest  from  the  pavement. 
Old  ladies  at  first  attack  him,  and  dignified  gentlemen 
afterward,  with  badges  under  their  coats.  They  may 
beat  their  wives,  according  to  old  English  law,  but 
there  is  no  law  permitting  the  beating  of  animals. 

Yet,  if  they  are  fond  of  their  dogs,  they  must  be 
proportionately  considerate  of  their  wives,  and  it  oc- 
curred to  me — hopeful  as  Young  April — while  we 
strolled  around  with  the  baronet,  he  stopping  con- 
tinually to  caress  his  little  dog,  which  had  an  idea  it 
was  being  punished  with  facial  solitary  confinement, 

257 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

tliat  Beechey  would  do  well  to  marry  one  of  these 
Englishmen  of  birth.  They  are  accustomed  to  queer 
birds.  Artists  were  always  in  attendance  at  the 
coiu-t  of  English  sovereigns;  the  literary  man  dedi- 
cated his  book  to  a  titled  patron,  who  graciously  ac- 
cepted it  and  bestowed  a  few  guineas  on  the  scribe. 
Portrait  commissions  were  as  ingenuously  procured. 
There  was  no  contempt  in  this  recognition  of  talent 
by  a  purse.  It  was  not  thrown  to  a  minion.  It 
pleased  the  noble  to  have  men  of  arts  and  letters  about 
him.  He  would  probably  accept  even  the  fish  har- 
pooned by  a  hair-pin,  for,  through  the  centuries,  he 
had  been  accustomed  to  have  these  fish-harpooners 
at  his  table.  And  oh,  best  of  all  English  traits! 
he,  unlike  the  New  York  business  man,  would  not 
attempt  to  make  the  artist  over  into  a  nobleman. 
He  would  be  the  nobleman  for  the  family — he  would 
want  to  be. 

I  looked  at  our  baronet  strolling  along  with  Beechey. 
For  centuries  he  had  strolled,  and  the  Lord  knows 
Beechey  could  stroll,  too.  In  a  faint  way  I  was  pre- 
serving my  Theory  of  Opposites,  even  as  I  yielded  a 
point  or  two  in  the  direction  of  aimless  pedic  correla- 
tions. I  was  very  happy,  and  went  at  the  Cokernut- 
Shy  with  a  fierceness  of  attack  that  amused  my  friends. 
They  little  knew  that  I  had  arranged  with  myself 
that  if  I  could  hit  three  cocoanuts  out  of  five,  they 
were  going  to  marry  each  other. 

That  I  did  not  hit  any  at  all  was  not  entirely  dis- 
couraging. I  had  chosen  a  Shy  that  was  not  pros- 
perous in  appearance.  Its  patronage  was  slim,  and 
there  was  no  air  of  success  in  the  monkey  faces  on  the 
nuts.    They  did  not  grin.    Whj^,  at  a  fair,  does  the 

pubUc  patronize  one  booth  and  pass  by  another  offer- 

258 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

ing  the  same  wares?  The  sign  of  Cokernut-Shies  was 
just  as  alluringly  painted  across  this  alley  as  the 
others,  the  black-robed  woman  in  attendance  more 
appealing  than  the  rougher  men  at  the  thriving  booth 
next  door.  Even  the  coster-girl  farther  along,  in 
lovely  pinks  and  mauves,  with  a  small  round  waist 
and  full  bosom,  was  not  doing  a  good  business.  These 
instances  make  one  believe  in  luck,  and  if  in  luck,  in 
horseshoes,  and  hats  on  beds,  and  peacock  feathers; 
then  the  Evil  Eye,  and  on  down  to  witches,  with  ap- 
proval for  their  dire  fate,  for  if  you  believe  in  one  you 
can  believe  in  all.  Or  is  there  a  real  cosmic  force  that 
arrests  the  feet  of  the  passer-by  at  one  Cokernut-Shy 
and  sends  him  indifferently  past  the  next? 

I  was  glad  to  lose  to  my  woman  in  mourning,  al- 
though I  was  sorry  not  to  marry  Beechey  to  the 
baronet.  I  decided  I  would  arrange  it  later  with  a 
crystal-gazer,  and  in  the  mean  time,  as  the  proprietress 
had  won  my  silver,  she  was  willing  to  talk  to  me, 
and  I  was  soothed  by  her  ^acknowledgment  that  they 
all  made  some  money  out  of  the  Shy,  even  last  year, 
when  cocoanuts  cost  thirty-six  cents  apiece.  Still — 
with  a  roll  of  the  eye — some  did  better  than  others. 
She  was  carrying  on  her  'usband's  business.  "The 
Sonmie  got  'im — blast  it!"  And  I  suppose  that  gentle 
river  ^\^ll  ever  be  pictured  to  many  thousands  as  a 
hungiy  monster  greedy  for  blood. 

Before  we  went  on  to  "Little  Mary,"  which,  for 
the  sake  of  the  baronet,  I  hastened  to  say  had  nothing 
to  do  with  our  stomachs,  I  asked  the  proprietress  why 
the  signs  were  all  spelled  "cokernut"  and  she  replied 
because  they  were  cokernuts.  So  I  suppose  the  cockney 
must  be  conscious  of  his  own  accent,  and  when  he 
reads  at  all  must  read  as  he  pronounces.     I  myself 

259 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

recognize  the  letter  '^r"  I  put  in  ivash  if,  as  Oscar 
Wilde  sa3^s,  ''if  I  listen  attentively,"  but  there  has 
been  no  inclination  to  slip  the  oral  evidence  of  the 
Middle  West  into  the  written  word.  I  don't  write 
"warsh-day" — it's  enough  to  have  to  say  it. 

And  that  takes  me  off  at  such  a  tangent  that  I 
may  never  get  back  to  "Little  Mary,  only  twenty- 
six  inches  tall,  and  alive."  But  it  has  occurred  to 
me  a  hundred  times  that  any  two  nations  who  read 
the  same  language,  if  that  language  is  their  own, 
should  never,  be  alien  to  each  other.  Let  us  take  an 
English  novel  written  by  one  of  the  splendid  school 
of  young  writers  over  here  at  present.  That  novel 
is  broad  in  its  appreciation  of  the  pain  of  the  world 
— not  of  the  pain  of  England,  but  of  all  countries. 
The  characters  talk  as  we  in  America  do,  barring 
the  slang  which  emanates  always  from  the  conditions 
of  a  narrow  environment.  They  conduct  themselves 
as  we  do,  laugh  over  the  same  situations,  weep  over 
the  same  losses.  We  read  the  phrasing  to  ourselves 
in — yes — in  American,  and  it  is  real  to  us. 

Yet,  when  we  Americans  meet  the  English  we  are 
confounded  by  the  rising  inflection  of  their  voices. 
We  put  down  their  accent,  possibly  developed  by 
climatic  conditions,  to  a  self-sufficiency  that  maddens 
us.  We  read  into  their  soaring  voices  a  superiority 
of  ideas  which  we,  a  newer  nation  and  conscious  of 
our  newness,  resent.  We  called  it  "side"  once, 
"swank"  it  would  be  in  this  day.  Personally,  I  have 
no  patience  with  this.  If  we  listened  more  to  what 
the  English  say  and  less  to  the  way  they  say  it,  we 
would  be  obhged  to  admit  that  we  were  at  one  in  the 
deeper  phases  of  life. 

To  this  day,  when  I  become  overpowered  by  seem- 

260 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

ingly  superficial  English  intonations,  I  fly  home  to 
read  Wells  and  George,  Richard  Pryce  and  Stacy 
Aumonier,  Swinnerton  and  Bennett,  and  all  the  young 
men  whose  pages  faithfully  reflect  the  present-day 
English  values,  and  yet  whose  ideas  on  the  printed 
leaf  can  be  transcribed  easily  into  the  Hoosier  dialect 
of  the  reader.  Try  it.  For,  as  I  grow  more  and  more 
fond  of  English  life,  I  offer  this  for  your  digestion. 
It  isn't  their  fault  they  are  a  thousand  years  old,  any 
more  than  it  is  mine  that  I  say  *'warsh"  for  "wash." 
They  are  worse  off  than  I  am,  for  I'll  get  over '' warsh," 
but  they'll  only  add  to  their  thousand  years. 

The  baronet,  who  didn't  want  his  dog  to  bark  at 
dwarfs— he  was  accustomed  to  tall  Englishmen — did 
not  pay  twopence,  as  we  did,  to  see  "Little  Wsltj, 
only  twenty-six  inches  tail,  and  alive."  He  waited 
outside  and  watched  those  who  were  rich  enough  circle 
about  on  the  painted  animals  of  the  merry-go-rounds. 
He  was  not  alone  in  watching,  a  crowd  of  those  who 
had  not  the  sum  to  cater  to  this  new  form  of  profiteer- 
ing (a  shilling  a  go,  hif  you  please)  forgathered  with 
him  and  scornfully  yelled  "Munitions!"  to  the 
wealthy  ones  who  could  so  spend  twelvepence.  Of 
course  the  baronet  did  not  yell,  any  more  than  he  did 
not  offend  us  by  paying  fourpence  for  us  to  see 
"Little  Mary."  That  would  not  have  been  baronial. 
American  money  went  to  the  side-shows,  and  I  had 
sixpence  all  ready  besides  to  give  to  the  little  creature. 

But  the  little  creature  didn't  want  it,  as  Mary  was 

a  tiny  pony,  twenty-six  inches  high,  and  alive,  and  we 

crept  out  with  the  guilty  look  on  our  faces  which 

simple,   kindly  people  always  wear  when  they  are 

deceived.    A  knot  of  girls  with  no  pence  to  spare  for 

their  fairing  had  gathered  outside  to  see  what  effect 

261 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

the  peep-show  had  upon  us.  ''Is  it  wuth  it?"  one  girl 
asked,  and  while  it  was  only  four  cents,  that  meant  a 
great  deal  to  her,  and  she  was  advised  to  remain 
away.  Still,  I  don't  know  why  a  charming  normal 
ipony  shouldn't  be  as  "wuth"  it  as  a  hideous  abnormal 
dwarf,  but  we  must  have  our  senses  shocked  for  real 
enjoyment.  The  jaunt  ended  in  a  taxi,  with  the 
baronet  gone  off  on  a  real  walk  of  about  ten  miles, 
and  a  glass  of  light  refreshment  enjoyed  by  the 
chauffeur  as  well  as  ourselves  at  The  Spaniards.  The 
driver  brought  the  ale  to  us  and  as  we  sipped  it — he 
gulped  his — informed  us  that  ''Dickings"  had  writ- 
ten a  book  there.  I  think  he  wrote  the  book  near  by, 
but  it  was  a  pleasant  locality  to  do  a  book,  and  as 
they  say  Dickens  loved  his  characters,  I  suppose  the 
combination  of  inn  and  loved  ones  made  the  labor  of 
writing  fairly  endurable.  I  cannot  imagine  slbj  one 
liking  to  write  a  book,  even  when  it  is  full  of  Me,  with 
the  I's  flying  along  like  telegraph-poles,  and  I  sym- 
pathize with  Mr.  St.  John  Ervine,  who  slaps  down 
"The  End"  and  cries:  "There!  I  am  through  with 
you,  you  brutes!" 

But  it  was  uncommonly  lovely  upon  the  Heath, 
with  London  like  a  scarred  bowl  of  dullest  metal 
beneath  us,  and  my  heart  swelled  with  gratitude  that 
I  had  been  able  to  visit  many  lands,  and  then  salve 
my  conscience  for  the  expense  incurred  by  writing 
about  them.  It  turns  a  writer  on  travel  subjects 
cold  to  think  what  a  bore  he  may  become.  There 
was  a  man  on  shipboard  once,  the  kind  you  never 
meet  on  dry  land,  fortunately.  He  was  a  buyer  of 
chinaware,  and  he  said  his  greatest  delight  was  going 
to  call  on  fol]vs  in  his  little  home  town  who  had  never 
been  able  to  go  anywhere,  and  tell  them  all  about  the 

262 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

pleasant  things  he  had  seen.  I  can  imagine  how 
thoroughly  he  must  have  been  hated,  can  see  the  stifled 
5''a'v\Tis,  and  smell  the  lamp  burning  low.  ''Well,  well," 
the  hostess  says,  with  a  sort  of  upward  movement 
of  her  body  in  an  effort  to  suggest  an  evacuation  of 
chairs  and  the  ensuing  departure  of  the  guest.  But 
at  the  risk  of  having  this  very  book  thrown  at  me,  I 
cannot  but  wish  that  all  Americans  could  have  at 
least  one  spring  in  England. 

Not  that  it  is  any  more  beautiful  than  our  spring, 
but  the  passionate  appreciation  of  the  people  for  the 
tender  green,  for  the  repainted  chairs  in  the  park,  the 
change  of  bathing  hours  in  the  Serpentine,  the  first 
straw  hat,  proA-e  them  to  be  as  emotional  as  are  we, 
even  if  it  takes  the  sun  to  draw  it  out.  And  if  two 
nations  read  the  same  literature  and  enjoy  the  same 
emotions,  they  are  not  really  very  far  apart. 

It  was  the  baronet  who  started  these  reflections. 
He  had  begged  Beechey  if  he  could  be  impertinent 
and  followed  it  up  by  asking  her  if  she  liked  Wilson. 
Beechey,  being  patriotic  without  analysis,  promptly 
said  she  did  because  he  was  her  President.  I  said  I 
hadn't  at  first,  but  the  longer  I  stayed  in  England  the 
more  I  was  growing  to  like  him.  ''You  enrage  me  so 
by  your  opposition,  I  cannot  help  it,"  I  completed. 

"But  he's  always  talkin'  about  ideals,"  from  the 
baronet. 

"Well,  why  shouldn't  he?"  answered  Beechey. 
"The  trouble  with  you  English  is  you  don't  believe 
in  anything  you  haven't  got." 

In  astonishment,  dog  and  baronet  stopped  as  one 
man.  "Not  have  ideals?  Certainly  we  have  'em; 
we  believe  in  'em.  We've  had  'em  for  so  long  and 
believe  in  'em  so  much  that  they're  nothing  new  to  us. 

18  2G3 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

We  take  'em  for  granted.  We  don't  feel  it's  decent 
to  talk  about  'em.  It  would  be  like  taking  off  your 
garments  before  a  crowd." 

Dog,  baronet,  Beechey,  and  myself  walked  on. 
There  was  something  in  this. 

But  come  over  and  see  them  in  the  spring.  The 
barriers  are  down  when  the  rain  falls,  and  they  say 
nothing.  I  actually  saw  a  baby  in  a  terrific  hail- 
storm in  April  holding  up  its  face  without  a  whimper 
to  the  cutting  of  the  stones.  It  was  probably  patri- 
otically crying  to  itself  in  baby-talk,  ''Good  old 
England!"  But  when  the  spring  sun  shines  they 
meet  upon  the  street  and  burst  into  ecstasies;  they 
radiate  good  will  toward  each  other.  They  don't 
know  it,  and  they  would  be  awfully  ashamed  if  they 
ever  heard  of  it,  but  they  are  taking  off  their  garments 
of  emotion  before  a  crowd. 

How  many  Good  Fridays  can  the  reader  recall? 
I  have  experienced  forty  of  them — and  over.  One 
was  at  St.  Peter's  in  Rome;  one  gathered  with  the 
multitude  at  Riverside  for  the  pilgrimage  up  the 
mount;  one  shamelessly  playing  an  extra  matinee 
in  a  Canadian  town,  making  profit  out  of  our  Lord's 
agony;  one  motoring  through  a  wide,  storm-swept 
country  as  desolate  as  Calvary,  by  the  side  of  one 
who  is  now  gone.  Yet  the  Good  Friday  I  remember 
most  clearly  was  spent  posing  in  a  New  York  studio- 
that  I  might  add  to  my  slender  student  allowance. 
All  day  I  posed — exceedingly  distressful  to  me;  and 
for  lunch  we  had  two  little  tins  of  beans  and  hot- 
cross  buns  sent  in  from  a  delicatessen  near  by. 
Gone  is  the  picture,  the  painter,  and  demolished  the 
old  studio,  but  every  Good  Friday  when  I  eat  my 
hot-cross  buns  the  dingy  scene  rises  before  me,  and 

2G4 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

that  remote  day  seems  dearer  to  me  than  probably 
it  really  was. 

While  there  will  not  be  so  many  Good  Fridays  to 
recount  from  this  year  on,  I  think  I  shall  not  forget 
my  English  one,  and  that  these  two  will  be  unblurred 
by  the  passing  of  time.  For  on  the  end  of  this  day 
in  London  I  was  able  to  apply  to  the  comfort  of 
some  one  younger  than  myself  a  sort  of  crystalliza- 
tion of  the  knowledge  gained  of  earlier  Good  Fridays, 
and  all  the  days  between.  The  school  of  experience 
takes  no  holidays  or  holy-days. 

I  was  to  dine  with  a  young  man  at  the  desirable 
hour  of  eight,  instead  of  dashing  into  the  black  cavern 
^of  a  theater  at  seven,  seeing  no  more  of  the  soft  twi- 
light. A  woman  does  not  appreciate  dining  at  that 
hour  unless  she  can  never  do  so  from  one  week's  end 
to  another.  There  is  a  thrill  in  the  wearing  of  a  long- 
tailed  frock  with  glittering  things  in  the  hair.  There 
is  a  newness  all  over  again  in  driving  off  with  a  young 
man  who  is  to  be  your  host,  even  though  you  know 
he  is  going  to  tell  you  all  about  his  young  lady.  Your 
hair  is  gray  in  which  the  ornaments  glitter,  therefore 
it  is  your  pleasure  to  hear  about  the  young  lady. 
If  it  is  not  your  pleasure  you  are  an  unhappy  old 
woman. 

My  young  man — the  young  lady's  young  man — 
had  a  touch  of  melancholy  about  him.  Yet  one 
could  put  down  melancholy  to  spring  zephyrs  stirring 
the  young  heart,  the  kind  you  dare  make  a  jest  of, 
and  I  dared  make  a  jest  of  it.  We  were  just  going 
into  Hyde  Park,  I  remember,  for  we  had  some  time 
to  drive  about,  and  the  young  man  behaved  remark- 
ably, for  he  clutched  my  hands,  but  impersonally 
and  as  one  seizes  driftwood  in  a  raging  sea.    Then 

265 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

he  told  me  that  he  was  going  to  die,  with  several 
years  of  pain  ahead  of  him  before  he  died.  That 
had  been  the  verdict  of  the  physicians. 

I  am  sure,  I  am  absolutely  sure,  it  did  not  first 
occur  to  me  that  this  news  would  spoil  our  dinner. 
That  came  after.  After  an  inability  to  see  this  vibrant 
boy  as  any  one  concerned  with  death. 

All  sorts  of  thoughts  came  between.  An  immediate 
wonder,  as  I  looked  out  upon  the  wistful  youthfulness 
of  the  trees,  if  he  could  be  getting  any  solace  out  of 
the  green.  Or  was  it  terrible  to  him,  since  he  might 
not  witness  the  spectacle  of  spring  again?  I  did  im- 
mediately appreciate  how  my  conversational  topics 
would  be  limited.  Could  I  tell  him  of  Little  Mary; 
would  the  ideals  of  a  baronet  be  important  to  a  dying 
man?  Can  you  turn  to  one  who  tells  you  he  has  re- 
ceived his  death-warrant  and  ask  him  what  he  thinks 
of  the  latest  Maugham  play?  To  be  sure,  all  of  us 
enter  the  world  with  our  death-warrant  in  our  tiny 
claws.  But  we  have  not  yet  learned  to  read  the  sum- 
mons, and  as  we  grow  into  lusty  life,  death  may  be 
for  the  next  man,  but  not  for  us. 

On  the  other  hand,  I  could  not  go  talking  through 
a  holiday  dinner  of  his  approaching  end.  It  would 
be  too  fantastic.  Nor  could  I  say,  "I  am  sorry  you 
are  going  to  die,"  and  then  praise  the  fish.  Yet, 
on  another  hand— on  my  third  hand — since  this  din- 
ner was  arranged  especially  for  me,  I  must  in  all 
decency  say  something  about  it. 

I  did  suggest,  as  we  entered  the  court  of  the  hotel, 

that  we  give  up  the  meal  altogether,  and  that  he  come 

home  with  me  to  cry  his  heart  out  if  he  wanted  to. 

But  he  looked  at  me  tragically  and  blurted  out,  "Oh, 

I  say,  it's  all  ordered."    And  then  almost  hysterical 

36^ 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

desperation  swept  over  me,  for,  in  some  way,  I  must 
enjoy  all  the  dishes,  must  eat  them  whether  I  wanted 
to  or  not,  yet  appear  immaterial  in  my  interest.  And, 
most  horrible  of  all,  now  that  the  first  shock  was 
over  I  began  to  realize  that  I  was  hungry  and  could 
eat  everything  with  gusto! 

There  was  nothing  of  death  in  the  air,  although  the 
beautiful  young  Guardsmen  who  were  filling  the  res- 
taurant had  been  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  it  for 
four  years.  They  carry  with  them  only  the  reckless- 
ness that  accompanies  an  existence  which  may  speedily 
cease  to  be.  Once  upon  a  time  these  men  of  birth 
would  not  have  entered  a  pubUc  dining-place  with  the 
startlingly  pretty  women  whom  they  now  openly 
affect.  But  this  very  rashness  savors  of  life,  eager 
life  in  that  room  of  soft  lights  and  music  and  agreeable 
food.  Life  came  in  'at  the  open  windows,  the  new 
growth  of  green  branches  crisscrossed  a  sky  as  rosy 
as  dawn.  Old  Father  Thames  himself,  lying  below 
us,  put  off  his  mud-gray  colors  and  caught  the  youth- 
ful tinge  of  overhanging  clouds. 

I  prayed  to  the  gods,  and  a  very  small  one  with 
bird-wings  and  a  bow  and  arrow  fluttered  down  to 
help  me  out.  Dinner,  after  all,  was  not  a  failure, 
for  the  right  subject  came  to  us  which  had  place  at 
this  strange  banquet;  a  subject  which  will  have  place 
in  a  death-chamber,  or  a  christening,  or  through  all 
the  humble  offices  of  the  day's  regime.  This  boy 
and  I  talked  of  love — his  love  and  my  knowledge  of 
it,  gained  by  bites  from  the  apple  in  prehistoric  days. 

He  had  done  some  thinking  since  the  verdict  of  the 
doctors.  He  had  mapped  out  his  life  and  hers,  and 
that  he  had  mapped  out  hers,  had  dared  to  arrogate 

to  himself  the  right  to  do  so,  was  the  matter  under 

2G7 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

discussion,  under  contention  through  the  dehcate 
courses  of  the  meal.  I  don't  recall  all  we  said,  but 
salient  points  jut  out  in  my  memory. 

"I've  written  to  her,"  said  the  boy.  '^She  is  out  in 
Egypt  with  her  father." 

''I'm  glad  you  wrote.    She'll  come  right  back." 

He  shook  his  head.    "She  won't." 

"You  don't  doubt  her?" 

A  soft  look  came  into  his  eyes.  "Never!  But — she 
doesn't  know." 

"Doesn't  know  what?" 

"That  I'll  be  going  west." 

I  am  glad  to  record  that  the  morsel  of  fish  with  the 
exquisite  sauce  lost  its  flavor  momentarily.  "What 
did  you  tell  her?"  I  demanded. 

My  host  was  proud  of  what  he  told  her,  which  was 
nothing  at  all  except  that  he  no  longer  loved  her. 
He  had  dismissed  her.  There  was  no  cruelty  in  this 
man.  His  face  was  haggard  with  the  conflict  that  had 
gone  on  within  him  before  he  had  disposed  of  her 
love,  briefly,  by  letter.  Yet  I  looked  upon  him  as 
an  enemy  alien,  an  alien  to  women.  "Wlio  are  you 
to  regulate  her  life?" 

"I  am  her  fond  lover,  that's  all.  I  love  her  enough 
to  give  her  up.  I  must  love  her  enough  to  know  what 
is  best  for  her." 

"British!"  I  ground  between  my  teeth.  "She  won't 
believe  you." 

"I  made  it  plain  enough." 

"Plain!  There  is  just  one  way  a  woman  would 
translate  that  letter;  she'll  read  another  woman 
into  it." 

"I  don't  mind  that." 

I  was  annoyed,  although  the  entree  that  I  was  just 

268 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

attacking  was  most  soothing.  "  You  don't  mind  it — 
who  are  you?" 

"I'm  the  one  that's  dying." 

"And  she's  the  one  that's  turned  aside." 

"Would  she  want  to  hear  I'm  dying?" 

"Yes,"  bkmtly,  without  pause. 

He  sneered  at  me.  "She  is  different  from  you. 
You  are  one  of  those  brisk  Americans." 

I  continued  eating  up  the  entree.  It  was  too  good 
to  get  angry  over.  "She  is  not  different;  she  is  the 
same.  That's  something  I've  learned  with  years.  A 
man's  love  and  a  woman's  love  is  measured  by  the 
same  rod  in  every  country — yes,  and  by  the  same 
system.  I  wish  governments  would  take  that  more 
into  account — they'd  get  along  better.  You've  got 
to  believe  me — take  some  things  for  granted.  A 
woman  cannot  be  going  on  fifty,  with  nothing  to 
show  for  her  briskness,  as  you  call  it,  but  a  lot  of 
blank  pages.  Now  the  point  is,  she's  got  a  right  to 
decide  for  herself." 

"In  all  decency  she'd  come  on  and  watch  me  till 
I  die." 

"Well,  let  her;  that's  her  affair." 

"Ruin  her  life?" 

I  very  nearly  yelled  at  him:  "Again,  who  are  you 
to  decide  what  would  ruin  her  life?  Do  you  think 
those  hours  by  your  bedside  would  be  any  worse  than 
those  hours  of  shaken  faith,  and  renewed  hope,  and 
woman's  eternal  analyses;  worse  than  her  wanderings 
in  mental  darkness  through  those  blazing  Egyptian 
days?" 

"She'll  get  over  it  out  there." 

"Of  course  she'll  get  over  it.  She'll  get  over  your 
death,  too — don't  flatter  yourself  she  won't — and  the 

269 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

strain  of  the  long  hours  by  your  bedside — since  you 
seem  to  insist  she'd  have  to  suffer  them.  Personally, 
I  don't  think  you're  going  to  die.  The  dying  aren't 
so  infernally  cruel." 

His  voice  broke.  "God  knows  I  am  doing  the  best 
I  can  for  her." 

*'Yes,  God  knows,  but  she  doesn't.  She  might  get 
some  inkling  of  it  if  you  do  die.  And  even  then  she'll 
probably  think  there  was  another  woman,  so  she'll 
have  two  griefs  in  her  heart  instead  of  one." 

The  boy  looked  up  at  me  mth  the  first  glimmering 
of  respect  for  my  theories  in  his  eyes.  ''She'll  suffer 
twice  as  much,  you  mean?  On  what  do  you  base  all 
this?     I'm  ready  to  listen." 

We  were  not  at  the  poulet  en  casserole.  As  befitted 
my  years  I  was  able  to  attack  this  chicken  and  enjoy 
it,  even  as  a  sort  of  miasma  of  old  misery  swept 
over  me  in  the  recounting  of  ''those  beautiful  days, 
those  beautiful  days  when  I  was  so  unhappy."  Ah, 
I  never  thought  during  those  days  that  the  unhappi- 
nesses,  not  the  beauty  of  them,  would  have  a  value ! 

It  was  a  long  course  and  quite  a  long  story.  I  had 
eaten  all  the  chicken  before  I  was  through  and  the 
asparagus  with  the  sauce  hollandaise.  He  kept  in- 
terrupting, and  side  issues  were  fiercely  contended, 
but  the  talk  went  something  like  this:  "I  knew — 
somebody — once.  He  said  to  me  one  day,  '  I  love  you, 
for  I  am  jealous  of  you.'  Then  he  went  away  for  an 
hour,  as  we  had  arranged,  and  I  never  saw  him  again, 
except  when  there  were  crowds  of  people  about. 
Not  for  years,  at  least — not  until  it  didn't  matter. 

"He  wrote  a  letter,  too — he  closed  our  accounts 

like  a  ledger.    I  wasn't  dismissed  like  a  servant,  but 

like  a  secretary.    No.  1 :  'I  am  remaining  in  the  coun- 

270 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

try  indefinitely.'  No.  2:  'The  countiy  is  no  place 
for  you.'  No.  3:  'Some  day  I  may  go  into  this  with 
you — not  now.' 

"Why  shouldn't  he  have  gone  into  it  with  me? 
Why  should  not  I  have  seen  the  cards?  We  had  played 
a  game  together.  WTiy  should  I  be  allowed  only  the 
backs  of  the  cards  while  he  saw  the  faces?  He  was  a 
card-thief — a  card-sharper  in  life.    In  my  life." 

"Did  you  hate  him?" 

"Not  at  first.  You  can't  hate  all  at  once.  You 
have  to  suffer  a  long  time.  Besides,  you  don't  want  to 
hate.  Fond  pictures  must  grow  faint,  for  a  woman 
feeds  on  the  past  longer  than  a  man  does.  I  clung 
to  the  pictures,  for  there  was  nothing  to  take  their 
place." 

"Did  you  cry?"  (Thinking  of  his  girl,  crying  in 
Egypt,  of  course.    He  wasn't  caring  about  me.) 

"I  was  too  confused.  Every  minute  I  thought  the 
situation  would  be  cleared  up.  But  I  was  lonely. 
Were  you  ever  lonely?" 

His  lips  were  white.    "I  think  I'm  going  to  be." 

"She'll  be  lonely  out  in  Egypt,  too.  But  you'll 
be  more  lonely  in  the  city  here,  because  there  are  so 
many  people  about  you  don't  want.  Once,  I  remem- 
ber, I  was  standing  on  the  corner  of  Fifth  Avenue 
and  Thirty-fifth  Street — ^just  standing  there.  There 
must  have  been  a  million  people  up  and  down  that 
street.  I  suppose  I  was  in  a  sort  of  mental  daze — be- 
wildennent  does  that  when  long  continued — and  for 
an  instant  I  actually  thought  I  was  alone  in  that 
briUiant  street,  that  the  whole  length  was  mine,  no 
people,  or  motors,  or  vans,  or  buses.  It  was  empty 
just  because  one  man  had  left  me  nothing  to  hold  on 
to.    That  frightened  me.    I  tried  to  get  over  it  then." 

271 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

"I  suppose  you  thought  it  was  a  woman,  too?'* 

"I  thought  it  was  a  different  woman  every  night. 
But  after  a  while  that  didn't  make  any  difference. 
The  point  was,  I  had  a  right  to  know  whether  it 
was  a  woman — to  know  what  was  back  of  it  all. 
Why,  we  had  been  going  to  share  our  whole  life  to- 
gether! For  his  sake  there  wasn't  any  condition  in 
existence  I  wouldn't  have  accepted  if  he  had  been 
fraiik  with  me.  I  was  willing  never  to  see  him  again 
if  he  didn't  want  to  see  me.  A  woman  doesn't  really 
want  a  man  if  he's  over  it  himself.  But  the  worst 
pain  of  all,  after  a  while,  was  knowing  that  he  wasn't 
any  good  or  he  wouldn't  have  written  that  letter. 
I  had  been  loving  some  one  who  wasn't  any  good. 
He  couldn't  even  live  as  a  charming  memory — all 
through  his  clumsy  writing." 

The  boy  was  snared  by  this.  He  wanted  to  remain 
channing,  yet  he  fought  for  himself.  "Your  friend — 
er — his  motives—  After  all,  they  may  not  have 
been — oh,  well— as  fine  as  mine." 

I  had  finished  my  chicken,  and  gave  the  little  frame 
a  pat  with  my  knife  as  the  waiter  took  it  away. 
''Good-by,  old  friend,"  I  addressed  the  httle  pouleL 
The  waiter  moved  off,  scandalized.  He  little  knew 
what  bones  I  had  been  picking.  "Not  as  fine  as  you, 
did  you  say?  Well,  I  haven't  seen  your  letter — other- 
wise just  the  same." 

"He  was  ill,  then?" 

"That's  all— just  ill." 

"And  you  learned  the  truth  when  he  died?" 

"Oh,  he  didn't  die.  He  got  well,  as  you  are  prob- 
ably going  to  do.  Got  well,  and  after  coming  back  to 
the  world,  tried  to  stumble  out  excuses  to  an  indiffer- 
ent ear — the  poor  oaf!" 

272 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

The  boy  was  very  wretched  over  the  possibility  of 
his  Uving.  I  followed  this  up:  "If  she  gets  that 
letter,  and  you  get  well,  you'll  be  ridiculous  for  the 
rest  of  your  life." 

He  turned  on  me  savagely.  ''Well,  what  do  you 
want  me  to  do?    Shoot  myself,  to  make  sure?" 

In  turn  I  rapped  so  sharply  with  my  spoon  upon 
my  ice-cream  plate  that  two  waiters  and  a  captain 
leaped  to  my  side,  distressed  at  my  method  of  call. 
''I  want  you  to  send  that  girl  a  cable  and  tell  her 
not  to  open  that  fool  letter.  She'll  open  it,  of  course, 
just  the  same;  but  follow  it  up  with  another  letter 
and  tell  her  the  truth.  However,  don't  take  a  boat 
out — you'll  cross  on  the  way." 

He  bounded  to  his  feet.  ''We'll  go  now  and  send 
it.  Thank  you,  oh,  thank  you!  You  don't  want  your 
ice,  do  you?    It  looks  beastly." 

"Yes,  I  do,"  I  returned  with  spirit.  "You  go,  and 
I'll  eat  both  ices." 

He  wove  in  and  out  among  the  tables,  stepped  on 
a  lady's  train  and  made  no  apology.  The  waiter  in 
a  horrid  silence  in  time  supplemented  my  host's  ice 
for  my  empty  plate.  A  moon,  full  and  smiling,  looked 
in  at  the  Guardsmen  and  the  pretty  ladies,  and  myself 
sitting  there  complacently  alone — eating,  eating. 

I  looked  at  the  moon.  "If  it  hadn't  been  for 
you,  I  would  never  have  got  into  that  old  mess,"  I 
reproved. 

The  moon  retorted,  "Then  if  it  hadn't  been  for 
me,  you  could  never  have  got  this  boy  out  of  his 
present  difficulty." 

In  the  words  of  Mrs.  Wren:  "Oh,  dear;  oh,  deario!" 


Chapter  XVII 

THE  little  four-wheeler  passed  out  of  my  even- 
mgs  Easter  week,  and  I  took  to  the  Tube, 
partly  from  a  desire  to  see  more  of  life  and 
partly  in  an  effort  to  prove  to  Mrs.  Hacking  that  I 
was  of  hmited  means.  Our  petty  cash  expenses  had 
grown  from  a  slight  irritation  into  a  grievance, 
although  the  ragged  account-book  was  perfectly  bal- 
anced and  the  entries  therein  mounting  but  necessi- 
ties. Mrs.  Hacking  continued  my  adoring  and  re- 
spectful servant,  even  standing  up  for  me  before  our 
betters,  before  footmen  and  such  appendages  of  rank 
as  occasionally  came  to  our  door. 

A  wonderful  old  dowager  would  now  and  then  call 
upon  my  landlady,  in  a  barouche,  with  the  kind  of  a 
step  that  looks  like  a  shovel.  I  can't  imagine  how  the 
aristocrat  of  the  two-bottle  days  ever  got  safely  on  and 
off  these  slippery  devices,  and  ^' Watch  your  step" 
must  have  been  born  in  the  Georgian  period.  The 
dowager  was  welcome,  as  she  brought  plovers'  eggs  to 
the  landlady,  who,  after  her  guest  had  gone,  would  bring 
them  down  to  me.  They  v^ere  always  hard-boiled  and 
I  assmne  that  the  plover  is  a  very  fiery  bird. 

The  English  have  a  charaiing  way  of  sharing  the 
beauties  of  life.  They  will  work  themselves  up  into 
a  lather  of  rage  over  an  extra  bath  with  the  geyser, 
then  send  you  down  a  cup  of  fresh  China  tea  in  an 
old,  old  china  cup,  or  lay  a  spray  of  spring  flowers 

274 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

on  the  table  and  slip  quickly  from  the  room.  And 
these  acts  of  courtesy  are  so  deftly  accomplished, 
whereas  their  financial  operations,  at  least  in  private 
Hfe,  are  so  often  bungled,  that  it  must  be  they  are 
not  really  meant  for  business.  The  Europeans  are  as 
greedy  as  any  of  us,  and  since  they  charge  us  with 
super-commerciahsm,  I  should  think  they  might  do 
well  to  emulate  our  methods,  and  display  what  I  dare 
to  call  a  grace  in  business  deaHngs. 

It  is  time  for  some  American  to  write  a  book  on 
"The  Gentle  Art  of  Making  Money."  I  suppose, 
since  he  would  be  an  American,  he  would  not  call  it 
by  that  title.  It  would  be  called,  ''Don't  Be  a  Piker," 
for  the  more  one  contrasts  the  business  methods  of 
our  country  with  that  of  older  nations  the  more  one 
finds  a  beauty  in  the  vast  conceptions  of  the  business 
mind,  which  has  as  distinct  a  value  as  a  bibelot.  We 
do  not  pike.  We  are  supposed  to  be  the  people  who 
make  money  with  the  greatest  ease,  who  care  only 
for  making  money,  who  know  all  about  doing  it; 
yet  an  American  rarely  haggles  over  a  small  sum,  as 
will  a  man  of  almost  any  other  nationality.  A  few 
moldy  precepts  must  cling  to  the  European  business 
mind.  ''Look  after  the  pence  and  the  pound  will 
take  care  of  itself,"  and  so  forth.  But  Americans 
look  very  little  at  the  pence,  yet  they  thrive  com- 
mercially. We  are  despised  for  our  prodigality  in 
European  countries,  even  as  the  Europeans  seek  to 
take  advantage  of  us.  But  the  advantage,  figuratively 
spealdng,  is  only  in  pennies,  and  the  American,  out 
for  a  good  time,  grants  them  the  small  coin — and 
keeps  his  dollars. 

Just  so  did  my  landlady  show  a  mad  activity  over 
the  inventory  of  the  dishes  in  our  kitchen,    I  had  a 

375 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

terrible  hour  in  the  lower  regions,  acknowledging  that 
certain  plates  were  perfect,  while  she  honestly  wrote 
down  in  a  blank-book  that  certain  others  were  vari- 
ously nicked,  cracked  deeply,  cracked  slightly,  or 
scrotched  (whatever  " scrotched  "  is).  Also  how  many 
wooden  spoons  there  were,  and  what  was  the  condi- 
tion of  the  enamel  of  the  stewpans.  "But  you  must 
expect  some  wear-and-tear  on  these  things!  That's 
what  I'm  paying  for,"  I  bleated  to  her,  longing  to  get 
back  to  my  fire. 

"Yet  we  must  have  an  inventory,  mustn't  we?  " 
After  all,  I  never  did  have  one.  She  kept  the  only 
copy,  so  it  would  not  have  held  in  a  court  of  law, 
for  she  could  have  changed  the  condition  of  the  dishes, 
with  not  a  "scrotch"  on  any  of  them — which  would 
have  cost  me  a  great  deal  of  money — three  or  four 
dollars!  And  the  most  interesting  detail  of  my  land- 
lady's business  activities  has  been  her  generous  refusal 
ever  to  send  me  a  bill  for  such  plates  that  were 
really  scrotched  after  entering  the  reckless  service  of 
Gladys  and  Mrs.  Hacking.  It  is  the  kind  of  deed  that 
goes  with  plovers'  eggs,  China  tea,  and  daffodils. 

The  eggs  take  me  back  to  the  dowager's  footman, 
who  stood  by  the  door,  while  Mrs.  Hacking,  out 
cooling  her  headache  in  the  area,  would  call  up  to 
him  reassuring  messages  about  me.  "I  work  for  an 
actress,"  I  heard  her  say,  "but  she  is  all  right,"  and 
the  footman  looked  relieved,  since  his  mistress  was 
within  my  four  walls.  Yet  being  "all  right"  piqued 
me.  It  sounded  very  dull,  and  that  may  have  started 
the  only  approach  to  the  kind  of  indiscretion  which 
should  rightly  accompany  spring  through  all  its  vari- 
ous coquettings.     I  shall  endeavor  to  withhold  the 

confession  until  the  end  of  the  chapter,  with  an  effort 

276 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

to  observe  the  climaxes,  although,  naturally,  one  of 
my  age  is  eager  to  talk  about  any  such  deflections 
from  the  straight  and  narrow. 

It  came  from  London  being  so  small.  We  are  apt 
to  put  do^vn  to  Fate  any  meeting  at  the  crossroads, 
when  Fate  really  has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  The 
roads  cross,  he  living  down  one  road  because  of  the 
view,  and  she  down  another  as  the  house  had  two 
bath-rooms.  And  they  meet  at  the  crossroads  he- 
cause  the  roads  cross.  I  managed  a  train  at  about 
eleven-thirty  because  my  work  was  over,  and  he  took 
the  same  train  as  he  had  written  his  editorial  and  was 
going  home.  I  may  say  that  we  always  went  home 
as  separate  entities.  And  that  any  one,  no  matter 
how  ancient,  withstood  this  business  of  coupling  which 
goes  on  in  the  Tube  proves  that  there  is  something  in  a 
Middle- West  upbringing,  after  all.  For  again  I  found, 
as  I  became  an  underground  traveler,  that  the  one 
phase  of  life  which  you  cannot  escape  in  England  is 
love-making.  It  is  largely  accomplished  out-of-doors, 
because  out-of-doors  belongs  to  the  people.  A  beau- 
tiful Englishwoman  exclaimed  to  me  not  long  ago 
— as  we  sat  together  on  a  house  balcony,  watching 
some  sort  of  pageantry — over  this  frank  exhibition 
of  Cupid's  wounds  in  a  London  crowd.  "Wliy  don't 
they  go  inside?"  she  laughed. 

**  Because  they  haven't  any  inside  to  go  to,"  I 

answered,  endeavoring  to  explain  everj'thing,  as  usual. 

''For  generations  girls  weren't  allowed  followers  to 

come  to  the  houses,  so  they  did  their  love-making  in 

country  lanes  and  city  streets,  on  buses  and  penny 

steamers,  and  under  the  big  trees  of  the  parks.    They 

are  accustomed  to  it  now.    I  feel  sorry  for  them,  having 

to  share  their  love-affairs  with  the  world." 

277 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

"I  should  think  they  would  see  that  the  nicest  girls 
don't  spoon  in  public,"  she  continued  to  argue. 

''But  they  aren't  the  nicest  girls;  they're  from  the 
stratum  that  for  j^ears  have  had  no  life  offered  them 
of  being  anything  but  what  they  are.  They've  been 
told  they  must  J^eep  within  their  station.  Why 
shouldn't  they  have  some  of  the  fun  of  their  station 
along  with  the  dinginess  of  it?  Wliat  intrigues  me, 
as  I  pass  through  London  streets,  full  of  lovers,  is 
the  possible  picture  of  what  is  going  on  in  all  the 
drawing-rooms  on  the  other  side  of  the  window-boxes. 
A  people  as  highly  sexed — " 

"Highly  sexed!"  Her  eyes  turned  to  the  interior 
of  the  drawing-room,  where  nicely  spoken,  wholly 
correct  men  and  women  were  taking  tea.  ''Who  says 
that?" 

"Other  nations  say  it,"  I  responded,  "and  patho- 
logical journals.  It  is  awfully  puzzling,  but  it's  so. 
Ask  any  woman  who's  been  the  round  of  the  world 
who  makes  love  most  delightfully  and  she  will  tell 
you  it's  an  Englishman.  Why,  you  all  recognize  it, 
but  you  won't  admit  it.  Even  the  park  commission- 
ers recognize  it.  Look  at  the  chairs  in  the  parks,  all 
set  out  in  twos.  They  come  out  eveiy  spring  just  as 
sure  as  lambs." 

"I  don't  see  where  you  find  all  this." 

"Well,  you  find  a  lot  of  it  in  the  London  Tubes. 
After  I  have  made  my  way  through  the  crowd  of 
love-makers  at  the  Piccadilly  Tube  station,  gone 
down  in  the  lifts  with  those  who  haven't  wrenched 
themselves  apart,  sat  on  the  solitary  bench  of  the 
platfoiTQ  with  a  couple  or  two  as  they  wait  for  the 
trains,  watched  the  smart  ones  being  casual  and  those 
less  fashionable  not  caring  when  once  they  get  on  the 

278 


AN  AIMERICAN'S  LONDON 

trains — by  that  time  the  whole  Tube  system  seems 
to  vibrate  romance  like  the  hills  of  Tuscany." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  pleasantly,  as  they 
shrug  off  topics  here,  which  concludes  the  matter 
always.  ''I  am  glad  some  one  gets  something  com- 
prehensive out  of  the  Tube  system,"  she  said. 

Then  I  laughed,  too,  and  didn't  tell  her  all  the 
things  I  got  out  of  the  system,  or  she  would  say  I 
was  over  here  to  strengthen  the  Entente  Cordialc. 
For  while  she  was  an  Englishwoman,  and  ''highly 
sexed"  startled  her,  she  would  give  an  attentive  ear 
to  dissertations  on  Love,  whereas  any  expressions  on 
my  part  of  the  thrills  the  London  Tubes  give  me  would 
bore  her. 

I  hke  the  enormity  of  the  Tube's  execution  and  its 
great  usefulness.  I  like  its  perfect  clarity  in  the 
posted  directions,  its  platforms  free  from  filth,  the 
orderly  queues  waiting  their  turn  at  entering  the 
trains — the  absence  of  irritation,  the  good  manners, 
as  toes  are  stepped  on.  I  like  the  escalator  at  Oxford 
Circus  (and  from  what  I  have  seen  on  these  stairs  it 
might  quite  well  be  called  an  osculator),  with  placards 
imploring  you  not  to  sit  do'wn  on  the  steps.  I  like 
the  posters  on  the  walls.  My  name  looks  at  me,  but 
I  do  not  recognize  the  lettering  as  anything  of  mine. 
But  there  are  others  not  of  the  theater  which  change 
with  the  seasons. 

For  little  homilies  are  preached  to  the  people  as 
to  the  best  manners  in  Tubes,  and,  contrary  to  those 
at  home,  are  left  unsigned.  ''An  obstructor  is  a  selfish 
person,"  we  are  told,  and  we  have  a  picture  of  a  homely 
man  blocking  up  the  way.  Another  gives  a  bird's- 
eye  view  of  a  train  with  selfish  people  refusing  to 
move  up  into  the  center  of  the  car.    The  "system" 

19  279 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

could  carry  twenty  more  to  a  car,  or  eighty  more 
on  every  train  of  four  cars,  if  every  one  would  be  un- 
selfish. And  following  this  revelation  there  is  another 
bird's-eye  view  of  happy  people  disposed  evenly 
throughout  the  car  on  that  halcyon  day  when  we 
observe  the  golden  rule.  The  modesty  of  the  esti- 
mate as  to  the  increased  number  that  the  car  would 
accommodate  amuses  a  New-Yorker.  We  would  jam 
in  two  hundred  where  they  take  in  twenty — yes,  with 
everybody  selfish. 

When  spring  came,  this  effort  to  improve  public 
manners  gave  place  to  the  names  of  country  stretches 
that  could  be  reached  by  Tube,  the  posters  headed 
by  verse  from  Keats  and  Shelley  and  Wordsworth. 
It  w^as  verj''  hard  for  a  woman  traveling  soberly  down 
to  a  matinee  on  a  sunny  day  not  to  give  her  under- 
study the  chance  for  which  she  had  been  prajdng,  and 
go  on  to  the  end  of  the  line  to  these  sweet  open  spaces. 
Once  I  did  break  bounds,  and  stayed  away  from  an 
entirely  unnecessary  rehearsal  to  visit  Kew  Gardens, 
and  had  there  been  any  dire  consequences  I  should 
have  sued  the  Tube  corporation  for  urging  me  to 
"go  down  to  Kew  in  lilac-time." 

This  is,  practically,  an  underground  chapter  (and 
the  set  of  mole  I  rashly  bought  one  day  may  or  may 
not  have  been  the  result  of  my  life  beneath  the  earth), 
but  it  is  fair  to  the  Tube  to  touch  a  little  on  what  it 
leads  to,  since  the  mere  business  of  traveling  on  it 
is  not  as  thrilling  a  procedure  to  every  one  as  it  is 
to  me.  A  number  of  us  keep  moving  on  in  life  for 
the  sake  of  the  destination. 

Spring  was  well  advanced  on  the  day  I  should 
have  been  at  rehearsal  and  went  to  Kew  Gardens 
instead.    The  bluebell  dell  had  dried  up  like  a  little 

280 


^ 
'\»: 


_,jalt 


■■■•    ^^^,-^4 


^,.?- 


'i 


;  if  fiteirttll 

^11        ^•^     'A-   i;-v.    •^^^:,''.v 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

shallow  lake,  and  the  rhododendrons  and  azaleas 
were  in  full  bloom.  God  was  in  His  heaven,  well 
represented  bj''  singing  birds;  there  was  the  smell  of 
cut  grass  in  the  ^dde  alleys.  Since  there  are  no  vehicles 
allowed  in  the  most  lovely  of  all  gardens,  and  you  do 
not  have  to  get  out  of  the  way  of  anything,  there  is 
a  serenity  about  it  which  gives  time  for  undivided 
attention  to  the  beauty  of  the  three  hundred  acres 
over  which  you  may  wander.  For  that  matter,  you 
can  walk  where  you  please  in  any  of  England's  public 
parks,  and  you  can  lie  down  on  the  warm  (or  wet) 
grass  and  go  to  sleep  without  fear  of  a  policeman 
poking  you  in  the  back  and  advising  you  to  roll  on, 
or  roll  over,  or  something.  Yet  the  grass  does  not 
greatly  suffer  from  the  millions  of  Londoners  who 
must  take  a  park  in  lieu  of  country,  nor  do  the  flowers 
and  bushes  grow  ragged  from  depredations  of  the 
visitors,  although  there  are  no  antagonistic  ''Don'ts" 
staring  at  you  from  grass  -  plot  and  flower  -  bed. 
Throughout  the  whole  of  these  gardens  I  saw  no  sign 
suggesting  restrictions,  and  since  we  have  to  have 
them  at  home  one  assumes  that  the  British  have  an 
instinctive  regard  for  property  and  a  sense  of  duty 
that  is  not  yet  ours. 

My  ideas  of  heaven  are  rather  vague,  but  it  came 
to  me  that  these  gardens  are  as  near  Elysian  Fields 
as  one  could  ask  for.  Indeed  I  can  well  imagine  a 
Londoner  suddenly  translated  from  this  world  to 
the  heavenly  orbit  set  aside  for  the  "unco'  guid" 
murmuring  disdainfully  as  he  screws  in  his  heavenly 
eye-glass,  ''Not  so  fine  as  Kew!"  I  was  alone  in  the 
gardens,  which  is  supposed  to  be  a  melancholy  situa- 
tion on  a  spring  day,  but  I  didn't  really  mind,  and  as 
a  calm,  by  degrees,  possessed  me,  a  calm  which  I  had 

281 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

made  no  effort  to  secure,  I  realized  anew  that  the 
country  does  us  good  in  spite  of  ourselves.  The  sick 
of  heart  and  the  unrestful  may  be  bored,  but  they 
become  tranquihzed  without  the  pain  of  striving  for 
peace.  There  were  a  number  of  us  women  roaming 
through  the  glades  by  ourselveS;  yet  not  looking  ridic- 
ulous, and  I  suppose  real  heaven  will  be  a  place 
where  old  maids  will  fit  just  as  appropriately  into  the 
lanscape  as  young  lovers. 

However,  the  gardens  were  not  without  lovers. 
''And  we  shall  wander  hand  in  hand"  was  being 
devoutly  followed  by  admirers  of  Alfred  Noyes  (isn't 
it?),  who  bids  us  ''go  down  to  Kew  in  lilac-time," 
for  the  business  of  wandering  hand  in  hand.  The 
most  obvious  hand-in-handers  were  a  pretty  pair 
standing  in  front  of  the  only  lilac-bush  I  saw  in  all 
the  gardens,  both  of  them  hopping  up  to  smell  the 
blossoms  as  their  entwined  arms  were  too  engaged  to 
pull  the  flowering  branches  down.  I  am  inclined  to 
think  now  that  the  poet  advised  the  reader  to  "go 
down  to  Kew  in  lilac-time,"  not  because  there  were 
any  lilacs,  but  for  the  reason  that  the  word  scans 
easily.  No  one  would  take  a  Tube  and  line  up  for  a 
bus  at  Hammersmith  (''queue  up  for  Kew")  if  he  had 
been  advised  to  "go  down  to  Kew  in  rhododendron- 
time."  It  would  be  a  clumsy  time — or  am  I  thinking 
of  rhinoceroses? 

I  sat  down  on  a  bench  near  the  lilac-bush,  and  an- 
other couple  came  along,  also  holding  hands.  As  he 
was  an  officer  still  in  uniform  I  would  have  thought 
this  remarkable  had  I  not  met  him  before  in  the  Tube. 
On  that  first  encounter  he  had  been  standing  on  the 
platform  at  Dover  Street,  indignantly  rating  a  Tube 

employee  who  represented  for  the  time  the  System. 

283 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

The  petty  official  made  no  defense  of  any  sort,  whicli 
was  unusual  in  these  days,  and  I  started  in  their 
direction  to  become  one  of  the  group  gathering  fast 
about  them.  Yet  I  went  but  a  few  paces  nearer,  for 
I  was  arrested  by  the  manner  the  officer  had  of  not 
looking  toward  the  Tube  employee.  His  head  was 
up,  his  shoulders  squared,  his  voice  vibrant.  Yet  he 
stared  straight  across  the  metals  at  an  advertisement 
of  no  moment.    And  I  realized  the  boy  was  bhnd. 

It  was  the  more  of  a  shock  for  the  sudden  apprecia- 
tion that  this  was  the  first  time  I  had  ever  seen  an 
angry  blind  man — a  blind  man  who  had  dared  to  be 
angry.  The  sightless  are  so  utterly  at  the  mercy  of 
the  people  about  them  that  they  must  remain  con- 
trolled, smiling  passively  in  the  hope  of  the  good  will 
of  those  with  eyes  to  see.  Some  day  this  boy  will 
become  passive,  too,  with  the  patient  face  of  the 
blind,  but  he  is  too  recently  translated  from  all  the 
vigorous  privileges  of  a  perfect  body  to  subordinate 
his  speech  to  the  exigencies  of  his  cruel  estate.  The 
same  girl  was  holding  his  hand  who  had  held  it  on 
the  platform,  and  she  pulled  down  the  lilac  blossoms 
for  him  to  smell.  He  was  so  gentle,  but  so  helpless 
in  his  gentleness,  that  I  wondered  why  he  had  railed 
in  the  Tube.  I'll  never  know,  for,  reahzing  that  he 
would  have  hated  most  of  all  that  curious  but  pitying 
crowd  which  gathered  about  him,  had  he  felt  their 
presence,  I  did  not  become  one  of  it. 

I  made  an  acquaintance  in  the  garden  whom  I 
again  met  in  the  tube.  I  think  it  was  Samuel  Johnson 
who  said  that  anybody  could  meet  anybody  at  Char- 
ing Cross,  but  with  all  the  prophetic  vision  of  a  great 
mind  Johnson  could  never  have  defined  a  tunnel  in 
his  dictionary  as  a  vaster  meeting-place.     The  lady 

283 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

of  my  acquaintance  had  sat  opposite  me  in  the  bus 
which  took  me  from  Hammersmith  to  the  gardens, 
and,  aftef  the  manner  of  Enghsh  people  nowadays, 
had  discussed  with  other  passengers  what  would  be 
the  best  gate  for  me  to  enter,  that  I  might  fully  enjoy 
the  beauties  of  the  place.  They  had  decided  upon 
the  Lion  gate  for  me,  and  as  I  sat  upon  the  bench 
by  the  lilac-bush  she  approached  me  to  make  sure 
that  I  had  missed  none  of  the  wonders. 

I  told  her  that  the  riot  of  color  of  azaleas  and  rhodo- 
dendrons would  pale  the  splendor  of  California  blos- 
somings, and  she  was  so  pleased  at  this — for  Americans 
are  often  too  grudging  in  their  praises  of  products  not 
their  own — that  I  found  her  pattering  after  me  on 
the  Piccadilly  platform  a  week  or  so  later,  to  ask  if  I 
would  not  go  with  her  to  her  own  garden  in  Dedham 
that  afternoon.  I  could  have  wept  from  sheer  joy 
at  her  offer,  for  she  didn't  know  an  earthly  thing 
about  me,  and  I  nodded  toward  my  name  on  the 
posters,  which  proved  that  I  had  a  pressing  engage- 
ment with  a  matinee.  I  have  never  seen  her  since, 
and  I  will  never  see  her  garden,  save  the  glimpse 
she  gave  me  of  a  lovely  one  growing  in  her  heart. 

All  of  this  goes  to  prove  what  a  social  center  the 
Tube  really  is,  and  why  it  was  not  very  shocking  to 
look  upon  a  middle-aged,  editorially  appearing  gentle- 
man whom  I  met  every  night  as  some  one  I  could 
very  well  have  talked  to  if  he  had  been  helplessly 
blind,  or  a  woman  fond  of  flowers,  or  even  a  ticket- 
taker.  The  ticket-takers  nodded  to  me  after  a  while 
along  with  the  "'nk  you,"  or  even  '^'k'  you,"  as  they 
received  my  ticket.  I  talked  with  one  of  them  about 
his  family,  for  his  wife  and  baby  came  down  to  guide 
him  safely  through  the  streets  when  he  crawled  out 

284 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

of  his  warren.  Another  Hne  of  the  city  was  on  strike, 
and  I  asked  him  if  he  would  be  called  out.  He  said 
he  'oped  not,  that  they  hadn't  a  mortal  thing  to 
strike  about,  but  strikes  was  like  Bank  holidays — 
they  had  to  have  them  every  now  and  then  to  keep 
the  people  satisfied.  He  wasn't  called  out,  which  I 
add  for  the  satisfaction  of  such  readers  as  myself 
who  always  want  to  know  what  happens  after  the 
point  is  over. 

However,  still  in  the  leash  of  social  restraint,  I  could 
not  nod  to  the  editor  (I  was  sure  he  was  an  editor), 
although  I  was  mad  to  ask  him  questions.  I  was  mad 
to  ask  many  questions  in  my  travels  in  the  Tube.  I 
wanted  to  ask  various  partly  intoxicated  gentlemen 
how  they  managed  it — ask  it  more  in  envoy  than  in 
anger.  I  remember  one  young  man  with  the  most 
musical  voice  I  have  ever  heard,  to  whom  I  should 
love  to  have  talked,  yes,  and  guided  him,  although  a 
policewoman  (looking  so  capable  in  her  blue  unifonn) 
would  have  warned  the  young  man  to  have  nothing 
to  do  with  me. 

There  was  a  wait  in  the  huge  lift  for  some  reason 
or  other,  after  we  had  all  crowded  in,  and  the  pas- 
sengers were  watching  him  with  quiet  amusement,  for 
he  kept  dropping  his  ticket,  which  a  patient  public, 
as  fascinated  as  myself  by  his  pleasant  manners,  kept 
stooping  to  pick  up  for  him.  He  was  asking,  not  if 
he  was  ''right"  for  his  destination,  but  where  the  others 
around  him  were  going;  and  as  no  one  was  inclined 
to  tell  him,  he  mused  aloud:  ''Now  you're  all  glower- 
ing at  me,"  he  said,  in  his  gentle,  smiling  voice, 
"you're  all  glowering  at  me,  just  because  I  asked  you 
where  you're  going.  Strange,  we  English;  every  one 
here  is  going  somewhere — a  destination  in  life  is  the 

285 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

only  thing  we  can  never  avoid.  It  is  nothing  to  be 
ashamed  of.  Two  people  have  asked  me  where  I  am 
going,  yet  when  I  ask  them  where  they  are  going  they 
glower  at  me.  We  are  a  secretive  people,  and  it  seems 
that  the  shame  is  not  in  the  going,  but  in  the  telling. 
We  are  tight — "  and  then,  after  a  pause,  apologetically, 
''no,  I  am  tight.  And  you  glower  at  me  because  you 
are  not  tight,  and  therefore  will  not  tell  the  truth." 

Then  we  all  laughed,  but  introspectively,  because 
we  did  not  know  one  another.  And  I  wonder,  now  that 
the  United  States  has  "gone  dry,"  if  the  naked  truth 
will  ever  be  spoken  there  again.  One  should  read  no 
brief  for  alcohol,  but  it  often  seems  that,  under  its 
influence,  there  comes  an  absolute  elimination  of  con- 
ventional utterances  that  are  wrapped  around  a 
thought,  and  the  idea  expressed  which  appears  to 
be  the  emanation  from  a  fuddled  brain  is,  in  reality, 
the  gist  of  the  whole  matter  without  the  rags  of  re- 
straining society  to  masquerade  it. 

Another  man  I  should  have  enjoyed  questioning 
was  a  very  well-dressed  citizen  hanging  demurely  on 
to  a  strap — for  seats  are  almost  invariably  yielded 
to  women  in  the  Tubes  and  buses — who,  as  an  evident 
stranger  to  him  passed  out,  made  a  kick  at  him  as 
though  to  relieve  his  feelings.  The  stranger  achieved 
the  platform  of  his  station  without  consciousness  of 
the  effort  to  kick  him,  and  the  strap-hanger  became 
a  controlled  man  of  the  world  again.  Nov/,  what 
rebellion  was  going  on  in  that  passenger's  mind  that 
made  him  long  to  launch  out  and  kick  somebody? 
And  how  many  of  us  who  were  sitting  in  the  car,  or 
standing  in  it,  did  not  also  long  occasionally  to  make 
society  our  football?  I  once  asked  a  girl  who  was 
treating  my  hair  if  she  ever  felt  like  hitting  those 

286 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

ladies  of  fashion  whose  heads  she  binished  at  so  much 
a  weary  hour,  with  the  implement  in  hand,  and  she 
rephed,  ''How  did  you  know  I  was  longing  to  do 
that?"  So,  as  I  would  have  been  the  hittee  in  that 
instance,  perhaps  the  iron  clamps  of  conventionality 
are  not  to  be  despised. 

On  the  day  I  went  to  the  Tower  by  the  Tube  I 
traveled  a  portion  of  the  way  with  the  handsomest 
man  in  the  world.  Indeed,  I  descended  when  he  did 
and  trailed  along  respectfully  behind  hmi,  which  was 
quite  in  order,  as  it  happened,  for  we  were  both  going 
to  the  Tower,  anj^vay.  As  he  was  in  uniform  he  was 
probably  one  of  the  officers  of  a  regiment  quartered 
there.  I  longed  to  catch  up  with  hun  and  say,  "You 
are  the  finest  specimen  of  manhood  I  have  ever  seen," 
but  I  know  I  should  have  terrified  him.  Singular! 
He  had  had  nothing  to  do  with  his  good  looks,  and 
my  admiration  would  have  been  purely  an  impersonal 
one.  I  simply  like  to  look  at  them.  I  could  have  ad- 
mired his  dog,  had  one  accompanied  him,  or  his  horse, 
upon  which  he  was  not,  but  might  have  been,  mounted. 
He  would  not  have  sent  for  the  police  had  I  expressed 
my  appreciation  of  the  good  looks  of  his  beasts. 
Yet  both  of  these  animals  would  have  reflected  his 
good  taste,  and  therefore  the  compliment  would  have 
had  more  to  do  with  him  than  his  splendid  bearing 
and  noble  head.  But  now  he  must  go  through  life 
never  knowing  that  a  gray-haired  woman  thinks  him 
the  supennan,  all  on  account  of  social  restrictions. 

I  have  seen  a  great  many  men  over  here  that  can 
be  classed  among  the  finest  types  of  earth's  manhood. 
While  I  would  not  exchange  the  chunkiest  of  our  men 
for  the  slimmest  of  these  creatures,  because  they 
are  our  men,  yet  the  more  I  see  of  the  British  officers 

287 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

the  better  they  stand  in  my  critical  eye.  Race  is 
in  their  length  of  limb,  their  bearing,  their  sureness, 
and,  strangely  enough,  coupled  with  that,  their  mod- 
esty. Some  day — a  thousand  years  from  now — when 
we  in  the  States  have  settled  down  to  a  type,  we  may 
have  an  equal  distinction — but  not  yet. 

Our  men  over  here  have  an  individuality  about  them 
which  speaks  for  extreme  resourcefulness  when  a 
personal  decision  would  be  necessary,  and  a  depth  of 
chest  and  strength  of  limb  which  give  them  almost 
unlimited  endurance ;  but  they,  as  compared  to  the 
British,  show  an  inclination  to  over-weight  and  to  a 
heaviness  of  feature. 

Then  our  uniform  is  trying,  and  our  little  overseas 
caps  absurdly  unbecoming.  We  eschew  the  ornamen- 
tation of  the  Sam  Browne  belt  in  America  as  something 
too  elaborate  for  democracy;  the  pockets  must  be 
inside,  and  high  collars  choke  our  officers  about  the 
neck  for  some  Declaration-of-Independence  reason  or 
other.  But  I  think  if  our  army  is  to  remain  a  lure  as  a 
means  of  living,  the  sergeants  outside  the  recruiting- 
stations  might  well  wear  better-looking  and  more 
comfortably  cut  garments  as  an  added  attraction  to 
the  business  of  soldiering. 

While  the  private  soldier  in  England  is  much  shorter 
than  his  officers,  as  a  rule,  the  colonials — officers  and 
men — are  of  good  height.  When  I  make  my  way  up 
the  dim  HajTnarket  at  nights  it  is  not  difficult  to 
pick  out  the  Anzacs  coming  toward  me.  I  recall  one 
of  them  suddenly  looming  up  on  one  of  the  soft  spring 
evenings  when  it  would  seem  that  all  \'iolence  of 
elements  and  of  mankind  was  forever  over.  The  great 
theater  across  the  way  was  just  emptying  its  house, 
and  men  with  a  white  patch  that  stood  for  their 

288 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

evening  clothes,  and  women  in  pale  evening  frocks, 
were  strolling  along  the  sidewalks.  Guests  were  de- 
scending from  brilliant  motors  at  the  Carlton  Hotel, 
other  well-dressed  Londoners  were  pressing  hopefully 
toward  the  Trocadero,  which  is  the  only  great  res- 
taurant open  for  supper.  The  scene  was  exactly  as  it 
used  to  be  before  a  man  whose  name  every  one  has 
forgotten  threw  a  bomb  at  an  archduke  whose  name 
never  did  matter.  Suddenly,  this  giant  Anzac  roam- 
ing down  the  middle  of  the  Haymarket  gave  a  great 
shout,  which  arrested  the  attention  of  all  those  happy, 
light-hearted  people.  He  lifted  his  long  arms  above 
his  head — a  coinmanding  figure  in  the  darkness.  His 
voice  absolutely  filled  the  street : 

"Number  One  gun  ready!  Move  two  degrees  to 
the  left!    Fire!"  rang  out  on  the  air. 

We  were  all  quiet  for  the  moment,  and  the  Anzac 
went  on  cascading  down  the  street.  "We'll  never  get 
away  from  it — never,"  I  heard  a  woman  say  as  I 
passed  her.  And,  of  course,  we  never  will — and 
mustn't. 

The  handsome  Guardsman  got  away  from  me  at 
the  Tower,  for  he  could  pass  through  with  everj^body 
saluting  him,  but  poor  I  must  remain  behind  because 
I  had  a  pocketbook.  I  must  give  my  pockctbook  to 
a  man  who  had  a  perfect  menagerie  of  them  in  a 
row  of  little  cages.  And  when  I  protested  at  this,  be- 
cause my  hanky  was  in  my  pocketbook,  and  my 
identity  card,  to  say  nothing  of  my  money,  I  was  told 
that  it  had  been  made  a  rule  during  the  war  and  no 
one  had  had  time  to  revoke  it.  For  once  a  lady  had 
carried  a  bomb  in  her  hand-bag,  and  while  she  had 
done  no  damage,  she  might  have;  hence  this  deadly 
hostility  against  all  purses,  great  and  small. 

28') 


AN  AMERICAN-S  LONDON 

''If  you  will  look  in  my  purse  you  will  see  I  have  no 
bomb,"  I  urged.  But  that  wouldn't  do.  It  was  the 
rule,  and  I  went  into  the  Tower  grounds  feeling  more 
like  a  criminal  than  ever  before,  and  thinking  of  a 
nmnber  of  places  where  I  could  have  secreted  splendid 
bombs  on  my  person  had  I  really  wanted  to  blow 
up  the  Tower. 

I  did  not  want  to  blow^  it  up,  although  to  my  think- 
ing it  is  just  as  ugly  now  as  it  was  when  I  visited  it 
years  ago.  But  it  has  now  taken  on  an  added  flavor, 
for  within  the  last  four  years  the  German  spies  were 
there  confined  and  shot  on  some  part  of  the  parade 
ground,  a  spot  not  yet  historically  remote  to  show  to 
the  spectator.  I  asked  one  of  the  beef-eaters,  all 
dressed  up  in  his  red  puffed-out  Yeoman-of-the- 
Guard  uniform,  if  any  of  his  men  fought;  and  he  said 
that  he  himself  had  just  come  back  from  France. 
Then  I  walked  around  him  in  a  circle  to  get  up 
my  nerve,  for  the  sixpences  which  encourage  speech 
were  back  in  the  little  cage,  and  I  returned  to 
ask  him  pleasantly,  as  one  friend  to  another,  if  he 
had  fought  in  that  fancy  dress.  But  he  hadn't — he 
wore  Idiaki. 

You  see  I  am  beating  about  the  bush,  the  bush 
meaning  the  editor  whom  I  met  ahnost  nightly,  for 
it  is  very  absurd  to  be  confessing  an  interest  in  editors 
• — especially  as  you  know  them  so  well — when  one  is 
going  on  fifty,  even  though  the  editor  is  going  on 
fifty,  too.  I  tried  to  ease  my  conscience  over  my 
interest  in  this  able,  portly  man,  and  pretended  that 
I  was  looking  out  for  Beechey,  although  Beechey  and 
the  baronet  were  getting  along  very  well.  He  had 
spent  money  on  flowers,  and  when  an  Englishman 
spends  money  on  a  lady  he  is  going  some. 

290 


AN  AlVIERICAN'S  LONDON 

As  I  walked  home  from  the  Tube  station  at  night  I 
found  myself  taking  an  added  interest  in  homes,  and 
where  I  would  like  to  live  if  I  had  my  choice  of  London 
habitations.  And  this  mental  May-moving  is  as  com- 
fortable an  indulgence  in  springtime  activities  as  one 
could  ask  for.  There  was  one  little  street  that  I 
passed  through  at  midnight  which  I  never  saw  in  the 
daytmie,  and  which  I  will  try  hard  not  to  see.  It  was 
a  crooked  little  road,  with  domains  for  every  kind  of 
household.  Some  stood  back  from  the  roadway,  with 
gardens  in  front;  good-sized  houses  where  one  could 
entertain  largely;  and  there  were  other  delightful  low 
buildings,  with  small  doors  but  a  step  up  from  the 
pavement.  I  frequently  took  one  of  these  little  houses, 
in  my  imagination,  put  in  a  double  window,  painted 
the  door  the  green  of  the  Prophet,  and  lived  there  very 
comfortably  on  five  pounds  a  week.  A  fairly  spacious 
house  had  two  doors,  and  in  that  one  I  had  Mrs. 
Wren  (with  family)  to  look  after  me,  the  Wrens  using 
the  smaller  door,  all  being  very  independent  and  happy 
— although  this  house  cost  me  more. 

I  think  I  was  generally  alone  in  my  house,  and  if 
I  took  one  of  them  with  a  garden  and  became  a  hus- 
band and  wife,  the  fancy  resolved  itself  into  Beechey's 
house,  married  to  the  baronet.  Try  as  I  might,  I 
could  not  be  a  husband  and  wife,  although  on  very 
springy  nights  I  arranged  for  the  editor  to  call  every 
day,  no  matter  what  house  I  lived  in,  to  talk  over  his 
work.  That  is,  the  editor  called  until  one  actual  night, 
on  the  Piccadilly  platform,  I  discovered  an  acquaint- 
ance of  mine  talking  to  the  portly,  intelligent  gentle- 
man, and,  spying  me,  for  I  was  running  away  rapidly, 
he  dragged  me  over  to  the  man  of  my  dreams  and  in- 
troduced me. 

291 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

The  friend  left  us  as  the  tram  drew  in  and  we 
crowded  into  the  car,  each  seeking  a  strap,  and  began 
going  through  motions  with  our  mouths  which  would 
suggest  conversation.  I  didn't  hear-  a  thing  he  said, 
and  I  doubt  if  he  gathered  anything  from  my  efforts; 
and  it  suddenly  occurred  to  me  that  this  was  the  first 
time  I  had  been  obliged  to  make  conversation  above 
the  roaring  wheels.  I  began  to  wish  heartily  I  had 
never  met  this  gentleman,  but  had  gone  on  with  our 
mental  conversations  in  which  I  always  appeared  to 
such  advantage.  In  my  embarrassment  I  did  not 
grasp  a  strap,  but  found  myself  holding  on  to  an 
electric-light  bulb,  exhilarated,  but  perplexed  by  the 
sudden  warmth  of  my  nervous  hand. 

I  did  not  long  hold  on  to  the  bulb,  however,  as  a 
terrible  young  woman — terrible  in  her  youth — who  was 
seated  directly  beneath  me,  looked  up  as  I  laughed 
shrilly  over  my  mistake,  and  immediately  rose  to  give 
me  her  seat.  She  was  not  very  young  ,  either,  but  she 
was  younger  than  I,  and  by  the  time  I  had  concealed 
my  rage  and  sunk  into  her  place  I  was  a  decrepit 
old  woman  nodding  in  the  chimney-corner. 

I  grew  a  little  older  to  my  new  friend,  too.  He 
tried  to  hide  it,  but  as  he  bent  above  my  aged  frame 
there  was  a  sort  of  triumph  in  his  face,  a  masculine 
trimnph.  I  could  imagine  just  what  was  going  through 
his  mind.  He,  a  man,  would  never  be  old  or  ridiculous; 
he  could  do  anything  he  wanted  to,  and  no  one  would 
call  him  silly.  He  could  walk  right  out  with  the 
chit  who  had  given  me  her  seat,  if  he  had  known  her, 
and  no  one  would  have  thought  them  an  ill-matched 
couple.  But  let  me  walk  out  with  a  young  man  the 
age  of  that  young  woman  and  I  would  be  a  joke — 
just  a  joke. 

292 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

I  assume  that  was  going  through  his  mind,  but  not 
after  we  reached  Brompton  Road  station.  There  an 
awful  judgment  was  pronounced  upon  him.  There 
was  another  girl  in  the  train,  sitting  by  my  side, 
utterly  absorbed  in  a  book,  so  much  so  that  she  had 
not  observed  my  relegation  to  the  ingle-nook  in  life, 
nor  the  arrogance  of  my  male  companion,  who  was 
from  then  on  a  lusty  fellow  in  his  own  eyes,  much  too 
young  for  me.  But  a  lurch  of  the  train  and  the  con- 
sequent reeling  about  of  those  standing  caused  her 
to  look  up,  and  with  a  cry  of  dismay  she  leaped  to 
her  feet  and,  profusely  apologizing,  offered — offered 
my  triumphant  male  her  seat!  He  refused  it  with 
unploring  eyes,  refused  it  indignantly,  piteously;  but 
she  was  adamant.  She  no  doubt  had  a  father  herself, 
or  a  grandfather.  And  at  last,  with  a  groan  of  desper- 
ation, hoping  to  attract  no  more  attention  from  the 
amused  crowd,  he  crouched  down  beside  me — an  old, 
old  man,  ready  for  the  chimney-corner,  too. 

I  walked  through  my  little  street  very  happily 
that  night,  for  the  point  is  that  the  denouement  was 
a  great  relief  to  me,  and,  while  nobody  will  believe  it, 
I  was  glad  that  the  verdict  of  youth  had  so  saucily 
put  us  in  our  proper  niches.  One  might  think  that 
tliis  was  choosing  the  dream  to  the  business,  and  that 
the  friend  I  loved  back  in  xAmerica  who  scolded  me  m 
the  first  chapters  for  wanting  to  dream  would  have 
disapproved,  had  I  not  found  a  letter  on  my  return 
home  from  the  boy  who  on  Good  Friday  was  prepar- 
ing for  death.  For  this  letter  proved  the  Importance 
of  Getting  Old  with  all  its  ensuing  relegation  of  actu- 
aUties  to  the  material  young.  The  boy  wrote  that  he 
had  a  complete  new  set  of  doctors,  and  therefore,  I 
should  judge,  a  completely  different  body.    He  was 

2U3 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

now  going  to  get  well  and  marry  his  young  lady  who 
had  flown  to  him  from  Egypt. 

He  seemed  to  think  it  was  all  my  arranging.  He 
understood  now  the  wisdom  of  suffering,  he  glibly 
wrote.  For  it  would  seem  that  the  grief  of  one  can 
always  be  resolved  into  joy  for  another,  and  as  he 
was  undoubtedly  the  ''another"  and  I  the  ''one,"  he 
didn't  in  the  least  regret  my  experience.  Nor  did  I. 
Particularly  as  that  early  happening  prepared  me 
absolutely  to  prefer  my  small  mental  house  in  my 
dim  little  street.  I  shall  not  suffer  in  my  house  of 
dreams. 

But  it  is  not  always  so — had  not  always  been  so 
with  me,  perhaps.  Love  is  a  greedy  animal,  and  the 
exercising  of  it  develops  a  greater  and  a  greater  ap- 
petite. Tranquil  as  the  homes  looked  in  my  Uttle 
street  at  midnight,  a  harassment  of  the  spirit  was 
not  unknown  behind  the  correct  stucco  fronts. 

Always,  always  it  intrigues  me,  as  I  walk  through 
a  city,  to  know  what  is  going  on  behind  the  unblink- 
ing house-fronts.  And  before  the  year  w^as  out  I  met 
a  woman  who  lived  in  one  of  these  houses.  I  will  not 
give  you  her  nationality,  and  that  she  talked  to  me 
so  freely  may  have  been  from  the  unflattering  fashion 
women  have  of  confiding  to  their  sisters  who  are  not 
dangerous.  But  I  no  longer  mind  that.  I  can  always 
avenge  myself  by  stealing  the  plot  and  making  money 
out  of  them! 

She  had  been  loved — oh,  yes! — ^more  than  once. 
She  made  little  calculations  on  her  fingers  which  ended 
in  a  shrug  of  amusement,  as  though  there  were  not 
digits  enough  on  her  pretty  hands  to  tell  them  all 
off.  And  she  had  been  hurt  just  about  as  many 
times.    Not  long  ago  (while  I  was  walking  past  her 

294 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

house  perhaps)  another  one  had  come  along — very 
agreeable,  quite  in  earnest,  serious  enough  for  flowers. 

''He  had  sent  them  by  messenger,  and  came  on 
later,"  the  woman  recounted  (she  liked  the  recount- 
ing; I  could  see  that;  it  is  one  of  the  compensations 
of  an  experience  no  matter  how  it  turns  out).  ''They 
lay  on  my  little  satinwood  table,  and  I  stood  by  the 
table,  touching  them  with  my  finger-tips  as  he  came 
into  the  room.  He  crossed  directly  to  me — strode 
across,  and  then  stood  towering  above — ^oh,  a  big 
man.  Now  I  knew  perfectly  well  if  I  did  not  move 
back  a  pace  and  if  I  lifted  my  face  to  his,  he  would 
kiss  me,  and  after  he'd  kissed  me  he  would  soon  mean 
a  great  deal  to  me. 

"And  I  knew,  too,  because  I  am  worldly-wise,  my 
dear,  that  it  wouldn't  be  so  very  different,  no  matter 
who  he  was.  And,  will  you  believe  it?  The  whole 
panorama  of  those  early  experiences  passed  in  front 
of  me  as  I  stood  fussing  with  those  poor  flowers.  Not 
only  my  life,  but  millions  of  lives  just  the  same — ■ 
women's  lives.  Those  first  wonderful  days — the  dis- 
covery of  tremendous  mutual  interests :  skies,  chimney- 
pots, music,  the  vista  of  streets,  our  friends,  our  desire 
to  help  them,  our  desire  to  help  every  one — we  were 
out  for  molding  lives.  And  then  those  breathless 
silences — of  love.  We  would  be  going  through  all 
those  phases  when  his  first  note  would  come,  break- 
ing an  appointment;  and  after  that  we  would  quarrel 
a  little — (but  oh,  the  reconciliation!) — then  in  a  httle 
while  would  come  what  I  call  the  telephonic  period. 
You  know — waiting  for  the  bell,  or  hearing  your  heart 
beat  as  you  decide  to  crush  your  pride  and  call  him 
up.  By  that  time  you  are  beaten ;  you  might  as  well 
accept  it.  And  then  scenes,  and  tears  in  the  night; 
20  2^J5 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

and  oh,  most  shameful  of  all!  walking  hurriedly  past 
his  door.  So  it  wears  on  and  out,  until  that  day  comes 
when  you  swing  out  of  bed  in  the  morning,  thinking 
first  'tea'  and  not  his  name." 

She  paused. 

''Did  you  review  all  that  as  the  young  man  stood 
waiting  to  see  if  you  would  raise  your  head?"  I  asked 
it  softljr,  fearing  to  break  her  confessional  mood. 

"Every  bit  of  it.  I  knew  he  would  be  like  the  others 
— if  I  lifted  my  head." 

"Well?    What  did  you  do?" 

And  then  that  close-mouthed,  exasperating  woman 
laughed  and  said,  "That's  telling!" 

But  I  know  what  she  did.     Do  you? 


Chapter  XVIII 

IT  was  on  a  glad  May  morning  that  I  parted  with 
Mrs.  Hacl^ett  and  my  maisonnette  and  went  down 
to  Mayfair,  to  Hve  at  a  Woman's  Club.  The 
plane-trees  came  out  at  last  to  wish  me  farewell,  and 
the  garden  was  at  its  best,  especially  as  Mrs.  Hacking 
had  now  taken  from  the  line  all  those  coarse  garments 
of  repentance  which  my  landlady  had  been  so  troubled 
over  her  insistently  hanging  out. 

Mrs.  Hacking  took  leave  of  me  shortly  before 
Beechey  and  I  took  temporary  leave  of  each  other. 
My  working  housekeeper  had  almost  worked  out  the 
four  pounds  she  owed  me,  and  I  really  couldn't  afford 
to  keep  her  on  any  longer,  as  the  cost  of  having  her 
remain  with  me  while  she  paid  me  back  was  becoming 
too  great.  She  went  away  at  noon,  dressed  in  fresh 
crape,  to  take  up  her  new  position  as  barmaid.  She 
said  her  "dad"  advised  her  to  go  into  the  bar,  so  that 
she  might  enjoy  more  cheerful  surroundings.  She 
left  a  roll  of  receipted  bills,  and  that  I  found  later  they 
were  earlier  bills,  and  that  the  last  week's  ones  had 
not  been  paid  at  all,  is  of  no  great  moment;  it  was 
my  own  fault  and  my  last  tribute  to  spring  madness. 

For  I  had  no  sooner  settled  at  the  club  than  the 
business  American  in  me  began  to  assert  itself.  To 
the  amazement  of  my  English  friends,  who  in  the  first 
place  would  not  have  been  bilked  by  Mrs.  Hacking, 
but,  granting  that  they  could  have  been,  would  have 

2'J7 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

called  it  "tiresome"  and  dropped  the  matter,  I  sought 
out  a  solicitor,  and  he  went  after  Mrs.  Hacking.  And, 
mark  you,  what  I  had  failed  to  do  by  generosity  and 
the  exercise  of  the  consideration  I  feel  is  due  to  those 
we  employ  this  man  effected  immediately  by  the  draft- 
ing of  a  letter. 

The  British  lower  classes  fear  the  law,  not  only 
because  it  is  the  law,  with  its  heavy  penalties,  but  for 
the  reason  that  it  stands  for  control,  and  ordered  sway, 
and  set  regulations  which  keep  them  happily — or  un- 
happily— disciplined.  I  have  never  seen  her  since, 
but  she  has  paid  into  the  attorney's  office  such  sums 
as  we  could  prove  that  she  had  taken.  It  was  a  pitiful 
ending  of  an  elTort  to  introduce  comfortable  innova- 
tions into  a  circumscribed  life.  It  was  more  pitiful 
for  Mrs.  Hacking  than  for  me.  I  knew  myself  all 
along — and  I  knew  Mrs.  Hacking.  But  I  can  imagine 
the  confusion  that  is  going  on  in  her  mind,  as  she 
draws  beer  at  the  taps,  and  sends  a  weekly  postal 
order  to  my  firmly  importunmg  (well-named)  "solici- 
tor." She  met  an  employer  who  was  at  once  amiable 
and  terrible;  one  with  loose,  lavish  inclinations,  who 
suddenly  showed  the  cloven  hoof  of  commercialism. 
In  short,  an  American. 

When  the  door  closed  on  our  handmaiden  (hand- 
me-out  maiden,  we  had  grown  to  call  her),  Beechey  and 
I  faced  each  other.  We  both  had  our  traveling-cases 
in  hand,  as  she  was  going  into  the  country  for  some 
time.  She  was  going  away,  and  I  knew  it,  to  escape 
from  the  baronet;  to  escape  a  title  and  a  shelter  with- 
out the  fear  of  Quarter  Day  hanging  over  her,  warm 
clothes,  and  plenty  of  food  for  the  rest  of  her  life. 

"Why?"  I  asked  her  in  the  silence  that  followed  the 
banging  of  the  door. 

298 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

''He  hasn't  asked  me  yet,  but  he  may,  and  so  I 
must  get  away  before  he  does."  That  was  Uke 
Beechey.  She  cared  nothing  at  all  about  scalps — 
they  were  not  paintable. 

"Why?"  Feeling  no  necessity  for  a  further  choice 
of  words. 

''Because  it  would  be  impossible." 

"Why?" 

"Oh,  my  goodness,  don't  go  on  saying  that!  I'm 
not  his  kind,  that's  all." 

"He'll  never  want  you  to  be.    That's  just  the  point." 

"Well,  he's  not  my  kind." 

"He's  a  gentleman,  and  you're  a  gentlewoman. 
He  likes  beautiful  things,  and  so  do  you — " 

"He  doesn't  like  beautiful  things." 

"Not  open  country,  and  trees,  and  flowers?" 

"Oh,  he  likes  them  all  right,  when  they're  real,  but 
not  when  they're  painted." 

"I  thought  he  bought  pictures?" 

She  gave  a  little  shriek.  "He  does!  He  does! 
But  oh,  such  pictures!  Cats  lapping  milk  out  of 
saucers.  Old  folks  asleep,  and  small  boys  tickling 
them.  I  saw  them  last  week.  I  didn't  want  to  speak 
to  you  of  them.  I  thought  at  first  I  could  live  them 
down.    I  couldn't — ever." 

"I've  no  patience  with  you,  judging  a  good  man 
by  painted  cats  lapping  milk!" 

"You  have  patience.  You  understand  perfectly. 
You  hate  bad  acting,  and  you  hate  bad  actors.  It 
isn't  their  fault  they're  bad,  but  you  hate  them  just 
the  same." 

"The  baronet  isn't  a  painter.    And  what  if  he  was, 

and  a  bad  one?    You're  not.    It  wouldn't  change  your 

ideals." 

299 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

"Yes,  it  would.  It  would  change  me.  You  said 
yourself,  once,  that  when  fine  actors  played  for  a  long 
time  in  remote  stock  companies  they  began  to  grow 
careless,  and  after  a  while  they  didn't  know  a  good 
performance  from  a  bad  one.  It  came  from  associa- 
tion. I  tell  you,  when  you  get  into  an  old  family 
like  that,  in  order  to  get  along  with  them  you  must 
try  to  feel  like  them.  It  wouldn't  be  fair  not  to. 
And  I'm  never  going  to  feel  that  cats  lapping  milk 
make  a  good  picture — no,  not  if  I  don't  have  enough 
to  eat!" 

"You're  not  young,  Beechey — not  awfully  young. 
You're  twenty-eight  now,  and  while  you  may  not 
absolutely  starve,  you  won't  have  enough — " 

"I'll  never  starve.  I'll  eat  my  crusts  of  bread  and 
I'll  see  great  pictures.  I'll  go  to  the  Imperial  War 
Museum  and  see  Sargent's  'Gassed'  when  it's  hung 
there,  and  I'll  come  away  satisfied." 

I  was  silent.  Beechey  and  I  had  been  to  the 
Academy,  and  we  had  seen  together  Sargent's 
"Gassed,"  which  had  been  painted  for  the  Imperial 
Museum.  We  looked  at  it  for  a  long  while,  and 
didn't  say  anything,  then  we  walked  around  a  little, 
and  went  back  to  see  it  again;  and  when  we  went 
home  both  of  us  cried  in  the  bus. 

"After  I  had  seen  the  pictures  in  his  house,"  my 
friend  continued,  "I  asked  him  to  go  with  me  to  the 
Academy.  It  was  the  acid  test.  He  loitered  through 
the  rooms,  picking  out  all  the  slick  pictures  with 
stories  to  them,  and  stopping  to  admire.  By  the  time 
he  came  to  'Gassed'  my  heart  was  beating  so  loud 
he  could  have  heard  it.  He  did  hear  it,  I  guess,  for 
he  looked  once — once  at '  Gassed ' — and  then  he  turned 
to  that  awful  thing  on  the  opposite  wall,  full  of 

300 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

machinery  making  shells,  and  he  said,  'You  can  almost 
hear  the  roar,  can't  you?' 

"It  was  my  heart  roaring — my  machinery  inside  of 
me.  And  it  came  to  me  right  there  that,  of  all  the 
machinery  inside  of  me,  the  part  which  gets  the  least 
consideration  in  the  struggle  to  keep  ourselves  stoked 
and  going  is  the  heart — the  spirit,  I  mean.  And  yet  it 
doesn't  cost  one  cent  to  feed  it — it  just  asks  for  space 
to  breathe  in  and  not  be  crowded  'way  over  on  the 
left  side  to  make  room  for  French  oysters  and  pheas- 
ants' breasts  and  Peche  Melba.  Oh,  I'm  saying  it 
all  crazily,  but  you  must  know  what  I  mean — you 
couldn't  act  if  you  didn't.  If  I  married  that  nice 
man — if  he  asked  me  to,  and  he  hasn't — I'd  just  be 
putting  my  spirit  in  one  of  those  little  wicker  cages 
cruel  people  keep  their  birds  in." 

That's  that,  as  they  say  over  here.  And  being  as 
old  as  the  world,  and  thinking  I'm  as  wise,  I  could 
very  well  have  said  to  Beechey:  ''All  right — you're 
right.  Give  up  the  baronet.  But  who  is  the  man?  " 
Only  I  didn't.  I  kissed  her,  and  she  went  down  to 
live  in  a  lovely  old  manor-house,  with  the  kindest 
of  English  friends,  while  I  went  on  to  my  club  with  the 
comfortable  feeling  that  so  long  as  those  friends  of 
hers  are  alive  all  her  machinery  will  be  fairly  well 
nourished.  But  I  decided  that  there  ought  to  be, 
among  our  many  relief  societies,  one  established  for 
the  cultivation  and  support  of  just  such  rare,  crazy 
spirits  as  Beechey's. 

Yet  I  like  efficiency,  and  I  like  best  to  find  all  the 
machinery  working  together— brains,  heart,  and  the 
hair-spring  nerves.  And  I  was  as  happy  as  possible 
the  minute  the  club  door  was  opened  to  nie  to  witness 
among   the  women  gathered   there  all   these  little 

301 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

innards  co-operating.  This  club  is  composed  of 
American  women — they  may  have  married  English- 
men, but  they  must  be  American-born— and  during 
the  war  it  became  the  center  for  American  activities 
having  to  do  with  relief  work.  The  president  of  the 
club  is  the  head  of  the  Women's  Division  of  the 
American  Red  Cross  in  London.  She  still  sits  sur- 
rounded by  clicking  typewriters,  while  in  the  drawing- 
rooms  above  days  are  still  set  apart  for  the  making 
of  hospital  garments;  for  the  war  rolled  slowly  into 
a  whirling  ball  of  furious  energy,  and  just  as  slowly 
will  it  wear  down  into  the  fiat  stretches  of  civilian  life. 

Out  of  its  uglinesses  have  sprung  some  goodnesses 
that  have  come  to  stay.  There  is  a  special  committee 
for  civilian  relief  in  this  club  that  takes  over  the  cases 
our  consul  sends  to  them,  for  they  must  be  Americans 
in  distress.  It  is  a  shameful  thing  that,  unlike  any 
other  country  of  position,  our  consulates  are  the  only 
official  residences  in  strange  countries  that  have  not 
a  government  sum  at  their  coiivenience  to  cover  such 
cases.  The  funds  applied  to  these  men  and  women 
in  need  are  collected  through  the  generosity  of  the 
American  visitors  and  from  those  expatriates  who 
know  better  this  side  of  the  world. 

The  ground-floor  front  is  used  by  the  American 
Red  Cross  and  this  committee  for  civilian  relief,  and 
the  hall  of  the  club  is  never  empty  of  some  of  our 
country-people  in  distress,  whispering  their  story 
into  the  ears  of  the  clear-visioned  girls  in  Red  Cross 
uniform  or  the  charming,  well-dressed  woman  who 
cai'fcs  for  our  civilians.  I  wish  for  the  sake  of  the 
unfortunates  who  come  for  help  that  they  had  a 
greater  privacy  for  their  griefs,   but  I  never  pass 

through  the  hall,  and  I  am  sui'e  others  are  like  me, 

303 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

"without  feeling  that,  by  my  very  proximity  to  their 
distresses,  these  griefs  are  common,  and  that  I,  too, 
without  the  insignia  of  officialdom,  must  put  a  shoulder 
to  the  wheel  as  part  of  each  day's  curriculum. 

It  was  everybody's  shoulder  to  the  wheel  on  the 
Sunday  I  came  in  with  my  suitcase.  ''Have  you  any 
money?"  I  was  greeted  with.  And  as  I  counted  out 
my  salary  and  placed  it  confidently  into  the  hands  of 
the  Red  Cross  official,  the  housekeeper  came  rushing 
in  with  another  roll  borrowed  from  a  son-in-law,  her 
arrival  coincident  with  a  second  Red  Cross  girl  who 
was  ah-eady  hatted  and  coated  for  a  hurried  trip  to 
Liverpool.  A  telegram  had  come  from  a  company  of 
soldiers'  wives  who  w^ere  being  sent  back  to  our  coun- 
try that  the  American  Red  Cross  check  for  their 
passage  was  refused  in  that  distrustful  city  of  Liver- 
pool, and  the  boat  would  sail  that  night  without  them. 
The  Red  Cross  girls  had  gone  down  into  the  country 
for  a  breath  of  fresh  air,  but  they  had  come  up  again, 
and,  as  no  large  sum  of  money  was  in  the  office,  the 
hat  was  sternly  passed  around  and  the  Sunday  outing 
was  transferred  into  a  long  train-journey  for  one  of 
the  Uttle  Americanos.  But  the  soldiers'  wives  sailed 
that  night. 

While  I  had  emptied  my  safety-pocket,  I  had  a  few 
sliillings  left  to  take  me  out  to  Pinner-on-the-Pin  that 
afternoon,  provided  that  I  would  go  third-class  and 
not  buy  any  chocolates,  which  are  four  shillings  a 
pound,  and  awful.  This  was  to  be  my  first  Sunday 
in  the  country,  not  counting  a  muscular  engagement 
to  and  from  Hampton  Court  and  Richmond.  We 
had  friends  to  visit  in  both  those  delightful  places, 
friends  whom  we  held  in  fond  esteem  as  we  started 
toward  a  bus  station,  but  who  became  disagreeable 

303 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

find  ill-favored  in  appearance  as  we  waited  and 
crowded  and  fought  for  a  chance  to  see  them.  Upon 
arriving  at  Hampton  Court  and  Richmond,  they  took 
on  more  attractive  qualities.  We  agreed  that  it 
was  ''lovely  when  you  got  there,"  and  were  ready  to 
listen  to  the  ease  with  which  we  could  travel  back  and 
forth  on  week-days.  Yet,  ere  we  had  reached  Lon- 
don, upon  our  return  trip  home  (buses  abandoned, 
taxis  sought  for.  Tubes  and  trains  resorted  to),  our 
suburban  hosts  again  became  abominable  in  our  eyes, 
and,  like  the  rest  of  London,  we  chimed,  ''Never 
agyne!" 

Unlike  the  rest  of  London,  I  had  clung  to  this,  but 
the  city  people,  after  four  years  of  misery,  cannot  let 
a  Sunday  pass  without  one  more  try  for  these  choice 
spots  which  were  once  gained  without  effort.  They 
are  thirsty  for  the  sun  and  sky,  and  for  clear  nights 
that  are  not  fraught  with  fear.  But  I  clung  to  city 
gardens  for  Sunday  tea  during  the  early  spring,  or 
went  to  an  old  house  in  the  Grove  at  Highgate,  which, 
as  I  pleasantly  ruminate  upon  pleasant  homes,  re- 
mains most  affectionately  in  my  memory. 

It  is  the  most  extraordinary  feature  of  London 
life :  this  taking  a  Tube,  traveling  for  twelve  minutes, 
emptying  yourself  out  from  the  Tube  lift  into  a  mean, 
overcrowded  slum,  and,  by  making  one  turn,  walk 
under  the  limes  of  a  country  village  to  the  Georgian 
doorstep  of  your  country  house.  My  friends  do  not 
stop  at  the  Georgian  period.  The  warm  brick  wall 
and  bastion  which  separates  their  garden  from  Hamp- 
stead  Heath  is  of  the  time  of  Edward  III.  He  built 
it  for  utilitarian  purposes,  and  it  has  become  a  lovely 
thing  of  color  for  the  eyes  of  the  literati  to  feed  upon. 
I,  for  one,  have  always  found  less  beauty  in  an  ancient 

304 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

bit  of  building  originally  erected  for  the  mere  puipose 
of  being  beautiful  than  in  such  garden-walls  which 
once  served  a  serious  purpose.  And  I  think  faces  are 
that  way,  and  that  they  do  not  take  on  any  great 
loveliness  unless  there  has  been  a  nobility  of  effort 
behind  the  outward  beauty  of  feature,  time  thus 
cunningly  revealing  the  inner  spirit  to  the  outer  world. 
Men  of  letters  for  generations  recognized  Highgate 
Hill  as  a  dear  spot  for  the  purpose  of  writing,  with 
none  too  long  a  journey  down  to  Fleet  Street,  equally 
dear  for  the  purpose  of  selling.  Lord  Bacon  died  here 
as  the  result  of  inhospitably  damp  sheets.  Coleridge, 
who  lived  in  my  grove  (for  any  place  I  love  becomes 
mine  without' costing  me  a  cent),  also  looked  last  upon 
the  Heath  from  a  Grove  window  before  he  turned  his 
face  to  the  wall.  Indeed,  a  great  deal  of  dying  has 
gone  on  in  Highgate,  and  the  visitor  is  obliged  to 
repel  a  strong  inclination  of  Grove  hosts  to  rush  you 
to  the  burial-ground,  something  as  we  once  drove 
strangers  about  the  cemetery  in  my  Western  city. 
Only  we  had  another  reason  than  graves — they  were 
the  only  grounds  whose  roads  were  good. 

A  sort  of  despair  sweeps  over  me  as  I  record  from 
time  to  time  in  this  book  encounters  with  present-day 
writers,  and  yet  say  so  little  of  those  men  and  women 
who  have  formed  our  tastes  and  founded  what  style 
we  may  possess.  But  reading  blue  tablets  set  in  city 
houses  is  not  the  pursuit  of  a  real  householder,  and 
this  is  a  mean  chronicle  of  the  moment.  Across  the 
street  from  my  club  is  one  of  these  tablets  and  I 
have  never  read  whom  it  holds  in  honorable  recogni- 
tion. It  might  be  Sheridan  or  Shelley,  Sydney  Smith 
or  Lord  Lytton,  all  of  whom  lived  in  my  street, 
which  goes  to   prove  that  I  am   more   fashionably 

305 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

located  than  if  I  were  in  Highgate,  where  Lord 
Bacon  strayed  purely  by  accident,  while  experiment- 
ing on  a  hen. 

Now,  a  fashionable  neighborhood  has  a  drawback 
which  I  never  appreciated  in  reading  avidly  of  the 
routs  and  balls,  soirees  and  masques  in  the  novels  of 
the  English  from  Richardson  to  the  interpreters  of 
to-day's  smart  society.  Comment  on  this  is  stepping 
aside  from  Pinner,  but  I  shall  return  to  the  little  vil- 
lage gladly — all  in  good  time — for  my  visits  to  Pinner 
relieved  my  tired  brain  from  the  insistent  beat  of 
syncopated  time  which  pounded  in  my  head  through- 
out the  week,  as  the  result  of  nightly  jazzes  in  my 
street  of  fashion.  In  all  my  reading  of  those  London 
parties,  in  my  enjoyment  of  crushes  on  the  sidewalk, 
of  hostesses  on  the  staircase,  of  "Let  me  get  you  an 
ice,  dearest,"  of  chaperons  against  the  wall,  of  ''The 
royalties  are  coming,"  of  the  last  dance  in  the  pale 
dawn — she  as  white  as  the  dawn  in  his  arms — I 
never  once  thought  of  the  neighbors  who  were  not 
invited  and  wanted  to  go  to  sleep ! 

Yet  one  need  not  be  sorry  for  the  neighbors,  now 
that  we  have  entered  upon  the  whirlwind  fashions 
of  the  time,  provided  that  they  dance  also.  In  the 
present  day,  if  the  business  of  drum-beating,  howl- 
ing aloud,  blowing  a  siren,  and  breaking  glass  bot- 
tles becomes  insistent,  the  neighbor  can  get  up  and 
go  to  the  party,  whether  invited  or  not.  It  would  not 
be  very  shocking  to  the  hostess  of  to-day  if  you  came 
over  to  her  house,  yes,  and  brought  a  partner  with  you. 
Even  in  very  fashionable  houses  hostesses  know  only 
half  of  their  guests  at  these  balls  for  young  people. 
They  invite  some  girls  and  some  boys,  and  these 
acquaintances  bring  their  own  partners  with  whom 

306 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

they  are  accustomed  to  dance.  They  do  not  even 
bother  with  the  securing  of  a  card.  '^Oh,  dear!"  a 
London  hostess  is  said  to  have  exclaimed,  '*I  feel  so 
lonesome  at  my  own  dances." 

And  since  the  war  many  of  the  buds  refuse  to  be 
chaperoned.  "Besides,  I'd  never  be  able  to  find  one," 
a  girl  told  me.  "She'd  be  dancing,  too."  It's  a  prob- 
lem— another  one — and  I  don't  in  the  least  care  how 
it's  going  to  end,  so  long  as  I  can  get  back,  before 
another  London  season,  to  my  New  York  apartment 
amid  riotous  studios,  whose  Bohemian  occupants 
go  to  bed  at  ten  that  they  may  have  the  early  morning 
hght  for  work. 

But  on  Sundays  there  has  been  Pinner,  commencing 
when  the  days  grew  absolutely  warm.  Beechey  dared 
country  houses  before  I  ventured,  and  would  creep 
back  to  my  fireside  to  thaw  out.  The  English  have 
a  week  for  spring  house-cleaning.  It  comes  along  in 
April  some  time,  when  the  fires  are  allowed  to  go  out, 
and  are  not  started  again.  It  is  spring  because  the 
house  is  clean,  and  if  it  is  spring  it  is  too  warm  for 
fires.    So  tra-la-la,  put  on  another  sweater. 

I  changed  from  the  Piccadilly  Tube  to  the  Bakerloo 
en  route  to  that  place  where  you  buy  your  tickets  for 
Pinner.  It  is  presumably  a  station  that  has  doors  and 
windows  above-ground,  but  of  this  I  know  nothing, 
as  my  operations  have  been  carried  on  sub  terra. 
I  met,  while  going  through  the  galleries  at  the  changing- 
point,  a  large  part  of  the  Japanese  army,  who  couldn't 
read  signs  and  with  Eastern  stoicism  were  trying  to 
accommodate  themselves  to  a  lifetime  in  the  under- 
world— a  world  which,  I  hear,  is  not  without  its  at- 
tractions.   It  must  have  been  the  enthusiasm  in  my 

face  which  caused  them  to  attach  themselves  to  me 

307 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

when  they  heard  me  inquiring  my  own  way  Pinner- 
ward,  as  from  that  time  on  I  headed  the  army. 
Even  at  the  ticket-office  they  also  bought  tickets  for 
Pinner,  not  that  they  knew  any  one  there,  but  prob- 
ably for  the  reason  that  Pinner  is  easy  to  pronounce. 
I  do  not  wish  to  boast,  but  I  feel  that  I  created  a 
demand  for  tickets  for  Pinner,  every  one  was  booking 
for  there,  and  officials  were  crying,  '^Not  the  Pinner 
train,"  to  lax  individuals  with  an  incHnation  to  go 
wrong  if  possible. 

When  the  train  pulled  in — it  was  made  up  at  Baker 
Street — I  immediately  secured  a  good  seat  by  the 
door,  and  began  telling  lateish  passengers,  "Yes,  this 
is  the  Pinner  train,"  until  I  had  my  compartment 
full  in  no  time.  They  were  standing  up,  even,  l^lock- 
ing  the  view  from  the  windows.  Then  a  silence  fell, 
the  way  it  does  on  railway  trains,  after  the  doors  are 
banged  and  before  we  start;  and  upon  looking  at  my 
watch  I  found  that,  according  to  its  proud,  pre-war 
platinum  face,  it  was  past  the  hour  for  the  departure. 
And  I  then  said  in  a  very  timid  voice  to  all  of  those 
glum  silent  ones,  "Is  this  the  Pinner  train?" 

No  one  answered  me,  they  were  so  astounded.  I 
had  been  collecting  visitors  fond  of  Pinner  for  fifteen 
minutes.  I  had  created  a  flair  for  Pinner.  People 
who  had  hitherto  been  satisfied  with  Harrow  had 
changed  their  tickets  at  the  cost  of  threepence  extra, 
all  on  account  of  that  secure  sensation  which  goes 
with  a  party  when  being  personally  conducted.  And 
now  I  asked  if  this  was  the  Pinner  train! 

At  that  precise  moment  we  started  toward  some 
destination — no  one  knew  what — and,  frantic  with 
anxiety,  heads  were  stuck  out  of  our  compartment 
windows,  two  full  heads  and  one  extra  pair  of  eyes  at 

308 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

each  window,  while  hoots  filled  the  air  to  attract  the 
attention  of  the  guard  and  ask  if  we  were  '^right"  for 
Pinner.  We  were — I  knew  it  all  along — yet  the  com- 
partment was  hostile  toward  me,  and  I  rode  all  the 
way  down  behind  a  large,  engulfing  newspaper, 
wrongly  called  the  Observer.  Or,  perhaps,  I  should 
say  ''rightly,"  as  it  had  every  opportunity  for  ob- 
serving while  I  dared  not  peep  out  once  at  the  sweet 
green  fields  for  fear  of  accusing  eyes  directed  toward 
me.  For  that  reason  I  did  not  know  that  the  carriage 
had  emptied  itself  at  one  stopping-place  until  I  heard 
a  chattering  of  strange  tongues  on  the  platform,  and 
found  that  the  Japanese  army,  along  with  everybody 
else,  had  reached  Pinner. 

But  my  troubles  were  not  over.  While  I  had  the 
name  of  the  cottage,  and  the  name  of  the  lane  where 
the  cottage  lived,  I  could  not  find  the  cottage.  I  do 
not  like  houses  to  have  numbers  when  they  live  in 
lanes,  but  after  going  up  and  down  the  pretty  way  a 
number  of  times,  calhng  on  all  sorts  of  respectable 
people,  who  were  creaking  with  Sunday  joints,  I 
could  well  understand  why  a  postman  should  prefer 
nimfibers.  I  wonder  that  they  do  not  strike  for  num- 
bers, and  refuse  to  have  a  Harbor  View,  or  a  Milldew, 
or  whatever  it  may  be,  on  their  visiting-list. 

I  then  withdrew  to  the  top  of  the  lane,  where  I 
could  see  a  caravan  over  in  a  field,  and  I  wished  my 
friends  lived  in  something  as  definite  as  a  gay  red 
wagon.  I  reflected  upon  my  friends.  Now,  they  were 
Irish,  and  if  they  were  Irish,  would  they  not  do  as  the 
Irish  do?  Yes,  they  would.  And  what  would  the 
Irish  do?  They  would  let  vines  grow  untidily  over 
the  name  if  it  was  on  the  house,  and  if  on  the  gate  I 
would  not  see  it,  as,  of  course,  the  gate  would  not  be 

309 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

closed.  I  tried  first  looking  for  open  gates  sagging 
from  the  hinges,  for  I  did  not  wish  to  be  discovered 
tearing  crimson  ramblers  from  pleasant  homes,  as 
ruthless  as  a  house-painter,  except  as  a  last  resort. 
It  was  on  the  gate — the  only  open  gate — and  as  the 
door-bell  was  out  of  order,  or  at  least  no  one  answered 
it,  I  walked  through  the  house,  and  discovered  my 
friends  in  the  garden  which  gave  directly  upon  the 
meadow  where  lay  the  caravan,  the  Pin,  a  small 
stream,  rolling  between. 

My  hostess  had  called  upon  the  caravan  people 
while  strolling  in  the  meadow  on  the  pretense  of  look- 
ing for  tennis-balls.  She  had  no  tennis-court,  but 
an  inventive  mind,  and  she  had  found  the  tenants 
of  the  gay  vehicle  very  ungipsy-like,  the  lady  being 
most  apologetic  because  she  had  no  maid.  How  she 
ever  could  have  secured  a  servant,  sodden  with  feudal- 
ism, to  work  for  anybody  who  lived  in  a  wagon  I  don't 
know,  but  I  suppose  she  would  have  shown  her  a 
servant's  bedroom  under  the  wagon,  and  that  con- 
formity to  custom  would  have  overcome  any  other 
unusualness  in  correct  living. 

Nothing  was  usual  about  my  friend's  house.  She 
said  she  had  no  housekeeping  cares,  as  she  didn't 
care,  and  I  wondered  why  I  hadn't  thought  of  that 
in  Chelsea,  since  I  really  didn't  care  either;  but  my 
Dutch  and  English  ancestry  get  in  the  way  of  a  com- 
plete shrugging  off  of  responsibility.  I  have  a  guilty 
feeling  that  I  ought  to  care,  which  nullifies  actual 
abandonment  to  form. 

They  cared  about  a  great  many  other  things — 

those  people.     They  cared  not  only  for  Ireland,  but 

for  the  world  and  its  future  happiness.    They  seemed 

to  feel  that  the  great  white  hope  was  the  United 

310 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

States,  and  they  assured  me  that  many  other  people  in 
England  felt  that  way,  too,  but  wouldn't  say  so. 
With  one  exception,  this  has  been  the  only  household 
I  have  visited  during  my  entire  stay  over  here  where 
my  country  has  been  upheld,  and  I  never  left  them 
without  a  strong  desire  to  stop  at  the  cable  office  and 
send  a  message  to  somebody — -anybody  in  Washington 
— which  would  run  something  like:  ''Just  returned 
from  Pinner.  It  is  decided  there  League  of  Nations 
imperative.    Please  accept." 

I  say  British  households,  for  the  American  in  busi- 
ness here  is  stanch  to  his  birthplace,  although  I 
have  found  that  the  men  of  arts  and  letters  are  less 
loyal,  and  I  think  it  is  not  for  the  reason  that  the 
latter  class  have  more  cultivated  minds,  but  that  they 
are  not  so  generally  well  informed.  We  are  all  suffer- 
ing from  a  surface  knowledge  of  world  conditions,  and 
we  have  caught  a  few  phrases  which  we  chatter  out 
at  luncheon-tables  and  think  we're  clever.  Especially 
is  it  so  among  women  who  sat  next  to  somebody  im- 
portant the  night  before,  and  can  tell  you  all  of 
Downing  Street's  inner  processes  of  thought. 

But,  as  I  have  said  earlier,  I  don't  blame  an  Eng- 
lishwoman for  attacking  us  if  she  wants  to  and  dis- 
playing at  the  same  time  an  enormous  lack  of  real 
statistics.  It  is  the  American  expatriate,  sneering 
out  of  one  corner  of  her  mouth  at  the  commercialism 
of  her  country  and  out  of  the  other  corner  inquiring 
how  she  may  avoid  the  British  income  tax,  who  is 
about  as  mean  a  type  as  our  nation  has  yet  produced. 

If  the  few  Americans  who  are  not  entirely  loyal 
think  they  are  making  a  success  with  the  English  by 
deprecating  the  ways  of  their  own  country  they  are 
pitifully  mistaken.    As  highly  nationalized  a  people 

21  311 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

as  the  English  look  with  indifferent  contempt  upon 
such  boot-hcking.  ^'Surely  a  man  without  a  country," 
one  of  them  said  to  me,  after  listening  to  an  arraign- 
ment of  the  greed  of  the  United  States  by  a  one-time 
citizen,  who  asked,  in  the  next  sentence,  what  was  the 
highest  price  I  thought  he  could  get  out  of  these 
States  if  he  went  on  a  ''propaganda"  lecture-tour. 

I  met  at  a  restaurant  dinner,  several  weeks  ago,  an 
American  who,  having  been  in  this  country  for  a  few 
weeks,  couldn't  go  to  sleep  without  a  monocle  in  his 
eye.  His  particular  theme  was  the  ineptness  of  our 
fighting  forces,  and  he  created  by  this  assertion  such 
fiercely  fighting  forces  at  the  hotel  table  that  he  with- 
drew and  went  to  his  rooms.  An  hour  afterward  we 
called  up  this  man  on  the  telephone,  with  Beechey 
at  the  mouthpiece  and  the  rest  of  us  hovering  near. 
Beechey  became  a  lady  of  title,  with  a  super-English 
accent,  who  had  dined,  so  she  said,  at  the  next  table, 
and  had  made  so  bold  as  to  call  up  the  gentleman — 
all  London  knowing  him,  of  course — and  applaud 
him  for  his  breadth  of  mind. 

What  we  could  gather  from  the  vibrations  that 
came  to  us  was  a  most  ecstatic  expatriate  assuring 
her  ladyship  that  he  was  not  at  all  in  sympathy  with 
the  narrow  views  of  his  countrymen,  and,  indeed,  often 
felt  hke  apologizing  for  them.  By  clutching  each 
other's  hands  we  forbore  to  tear  the  telephone  from 
the  wall  and  hurl  it  in  the  direction  of  his  rooms,  and 
after  Beechey  had  made  an  appointment  to  lunch  with 
him  the  next  day,  we  left  him  to  the  punishment  which 
lay  ahead,  of  walking  around  the  hotel  lobby  during 
the  following  noon  hour,  waiting  to  be  claimed  by  a 
real  lady.  We  never  knew  the  end,  but,  at  least,  it  was 
something  to  have  met  with  the  complete  renegade. 

312 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

The  other  British  household  not  only  upheld  my 
country,  but  rebuked  me  for  not  fighting  for  it  more 
vigorously.  They  little  knew  that  I  could  have  put 
my  head  down  on  the  shoulder  of  this  household  and 
cried  tears  of  appreciation.  It  was  a  comfortable 
place  to  cry  in,  which  means  also  to  be  glad  in:  the 
top  floor  of  an  office-building,  wide  and  low-ceihnged, 
like  a  country  house,  with  the  window^s  on  one  side 
giving  upon  a  green  graveyard,  gay  with  sporting 
children,  and  on  the  other  upon  a  dusky  city  street 
where  we  could  faintly  espy  hopeful  night-walkers 
mincing  down  on  high  heels  to  the  Strand. 

The  night  before  I  dined  in  this  house,  an  elderly 
woman — one  abandoned  to  being  elderly — had  asked, 
as  we  left  the  Tube  lift,  if  she  could  walk  along  with 
me,  for  she  was  afraid  of  the  dark.  It  ended  in  my 
taking  her  all  the  way  home  to  a  nice  little  house 
opposite  the  palace  of  a  duke,  while  she  told  me  of 
the  fear  of  the  black  outdoors  that  had  always  pos- 
sessed her.  We  spoke  of  these  things  as  we  looked 
down  upon  the  dusky  street  from  this  high,  safe  home, 
and  my  hostess  said  she  had  often  thought  how 
dreadful  it  must  be  for  a  girl  who  was  really  afraid 
of  the  streets  after  dark  to  have  to  walk  them  for  her 
living.  For  timidity  of  the  night  is  just  as  much  a 
part  of  the  fives  of  the  unconformed  as  of  those  of 
elderly  ladies  living  in  the  shadow  of  ducal  houses. 

From  that  topic  all  of  us — those  back  in  the  room, 
sitting  on  chintz-covered  chairs — went  on  to  speak 
of  the  wickedness  of  the  dark  room  as  a  punishment 
for  criminals,  now  that  fear  of  thick  darkness,  claus- 
trophobia it  is  called,  is  a  defined  nervous  disease. 
That  subject  led  on  to  various  injustices  of  imprison- 
ment, and  from  that  to  German  prisoners  in  England. 

3i:} 


AN  AMERICAN'S  "LONDON 

I  had  a  sick  heart  beating  against  my  breast,  for  I 
wanted  to  speak  of  a  judgment  rendered  in  an  Eng- 
lish court  a  day  or  two  before.  A  British  farmer  was 
fined  ten  pounds  for  giving  a  German  prisoner  a  piece' 
of  bread  that  he  might  supplement  the  scanty  fare 
allowed  him  in  the  prison  camp,  and  by  increasing 
his  fare  increase  his  working  output  on  the  farmer's 
land,  for  the  prisoner  was  weak. 

I  hesitated,  fearing  to  give  offense,  yet  the  English 
party  themselves  brought  it  up,  not  discussing  it 
loudly,  but  in  low  tones  of  distress.  And  it  was  all 
kinds  of  English  people  who  were  concerned  over  this 
judgment;  one  was  a  woman  whose  husband  had  been 
killed  at  the  front;  another  an  officer  in  a  Highland 
regiment,  scarred  for  life  by  the  bullets  of  the  enemy; 
my  own  hostess  was  bearing  a  title  as  a  reward  for 
her  magnificent  work  throughout  the  war.  And  it 
was  an  English  gentleman  of  the  old  school  who  gave 
the  summary:  ''The  little  farmer — did  you  read  his 
plea  for  clemency?  He  begged  the  court  to  bear  in 
mind  that  he  was  not  sorry  for  the  German— he  gave 
him  bread  that  he  might  work  him  harder.  I'd  rather 
be  Judas  than  that  judge.  Judas  betrayed  only  one 
man — this  fellow  has  betrayed  his  country." 

In  spite  of  the  verdict  of  the  judge,  I  walked  home 

through  the  streets  that  night  with  ever  so  warm  a 

feeling  in  my  heart  for  all  the  world,  for  tolerance 

had  been  the  keynote  of  the  evening,  and  it  had  come 

from  Whig  and  Tory  alike,  from  civilian  and  from 

fighting-man,  from  artist  and  expert  on  lost  motions. 

The  world  is  made  up  of  these  people,  and  the  world  is 

made  up  of  circles.    And  if  this  little  circle  on  the  top 

floor  of  that  office-building  could  weave  so  beautiful 

a  chaplet  of  generous  thoughts,  could  not  all  circles 

314 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

become  as  understandingly  engaged  and  merge  into 
one  large  round  community  of  harmonious  belief? 

.''If  so,"  I  communed  with  myself,  as  I  walked 
along,  ''if  so  I  might  as  well  remain  in  England  as — " 
Then  I  pulled  m^'seif  up  shortly,  and  I  said  aloud, 
while  standing  on  the  curbstone  preparing  to  cross 
Piccadilly,  ' '  Louise  Closser  Hale,  you're  an  American, 
and  don't  you  forget  it!" 

But  when  I  had  crossed  the  street  I  was  even  more 
unstable  about  myself,  for  I  had  looked  first  to  the 
right  and  then  to  the  left,  instinctively,  whereas  in 
America  we  must  look  first  to  the  left  and  then  to 
the  right  to  avoid  the  traffic.  It  was  no  longer  difficult 
to  reverse  the  order  as  when  one  first  comes  over. 
It  was  no  longer  like  trying  to  rub  your  head  and 
pat  your  stomach  at  the  same  time.  The  trouble, 
would  be  to  look  to  the  left  and  then  to  the  right  when 
I  crossed  the  street  at  home. 

It  became  "curiouser  and  curiouser"  as  I  began  to 
watch  myself.  I  decided  a  dress  in  a  window  was 
dear,  although  I  had  not  put  the  pounds  into  dollars. 
I  was  thinking  in  English  money.  Moreover,  I  had 
called  it  a  "frock"  in  my  mind  and  not  a  dress. 
And — oh,  more  of  the  moreovers! — I  thought  it  was 
very  smart  when  it  probably  wasn't  at  all.  I  began 
making  fierce  speeches  to  myself,  for  this  habit  of 
absorption  was  creeping  over  me:  "You'd  better 
be  going  home — sponge!"  or,  sarcastically,  "I  sup- 
pose you'll  have  an  English  accent  next."  Immediately 
after  that  last  snort  at  myself  I  remember  calling  to 
a  maid  who  tapped  at  my  door,  "  I'll  be  out '  directly,' " 
then  terrified  her  by  yelling  upon  this  English  slip, 
'"Right  away,'"  I  said,  "  'right  away.'" 

When  summer  came  on  I  visited  friends  farther 

315 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

afield,  going  down  on  Sunday-morning  trains  and 
coming  back  late  Monday  afternoon.  Something 
warned  me  that  I  must  begin  to  wean  myself  away 
from  London.  I  was  sure  of  it  after  the  day  I  spent 
at  the  Temple.  I  think  the  first  visit  of  an  American 
to  the  Temple  is  rather  dreary.  There  doesn't  seem 
to  be  enough  air,  and  you  are  nervous  about  the 
sewerage.  Besides,  you  have  your  guide-book,  which 
is  a  nuisance.  If  you  keep  on  revisiting  this  locality 
and  still  dislike  it,  you  had  better  go  home,  anyway — ■ 
a  Broadway  cafe  is  the  only  place  for  you.  But  on 
the  day  you  are  too  fascinated  to  leave  it,  even  to 
take  tea  with  a  beautiful  British  officer,  on  the  day 
you  loiter  in  Fountain  Court,  pick  out  your  rooms  in 
Brick  Court,  chat  with  the  wig-maker  in  Pump  Court, 
you  had  also  best  arrange  for  your  transportation,  for 
London  is  insidiously  enfolding  you  in  its  arms. 

The  wig-maker  was  working  on  the  white  horse- 
hair adornment  of  a  K.  C.  He  asked  me  if  I  knew 
what  a  K.  C.  meant,  and  I  replied  that  I  did — that  it 
meant  Knights  of  Columbus.  But  he  was  very  stern 
with  me.  He  said  the  war  got  into  everything,  and 
K.  C. — the  original  K.  C. — was  King's  Counsel.  The 
wig  he  was  making  showed  no  great  novelty  of  form, 
and  I  asked  him  if  he  couldn't  have  the  hair  bobbed; 
at  that  he  was  intensely  annoyed,  and  said  they  must 
all  be  alike  until  they  became  judges,  when  they  have 
completely  new  wigs.  I  then  wanted  to  know  if  he 
could  not  add  more  horsehair  to  the  barrister's  wig, 
and  thus  save  the  judge  six  guineas.  But  he  said  'it 
would  be  impossible,  anyway:  when  one  become  a 
judge  the  head-size  immediately  increased.  He  wanted 
to  sell  me  a  book  on  the  Temple,  and  I  told  him  if  I 
learned  any  more  about  it  I  should  never  go  back  to 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

America  at  all;  and  he  asked  me  if  it  was  necessary 
to  return.  I  replied  spontaneously,  thank  the  Lord! 
that  it  was  necessary  because  I  was  an  American. 
But  as  I  walked  up  Cockspur  Street,  past  the  ticket- 
offices,  I  did  not  find  little  tendrils  of  longing  stretch- 
ing out  from  my  heart,  as  I  had  sometimes  felt  them 
before,  and  I  was  almightily  worried. 

Going  down  into  the  country  didn't  help  things 
any.  Apart  from  the  difficulty  of  getting  to  and  fro, 
which  can  be  obviated  by  traveling  first-class,  I  ap- 
proved of  all  my  countiy  houses,  and  wished  to  smug- 
gle them  into  America.  I  would  also  like  to  take  the 
Sunday  eleven-o'clock  going  down  to  Brighton,  little 
engine  and  all,  for  the  train  is  called  ''the  Pullman," 
and  we  could  have  a  great  deal  of  fun  with  these  cars, 
introducing  their  slim,  delicate  selves  to  our  original 
burly  Pullmans,  which  have  felt  no  refining  influences 
of  an  old  civilization.  But  they  are  a  pearl  of  great 
price,  for  it  costs  three  dollars  and  fifty  cents  to  ride 
one  hour  on  them. 

Sometimes  I  tried  to  discourage  myself  from  this 
hold  London  was  getting  on  me  by  recalling  the  coffee 
we  make,  but  the  friend  I  visit  near  Brighton  prepares 
the  finest  coffee  I  have  ever  tasted,  and  it  is  "British- 
made."  The  pulverized  bean  is  put  in  an  earthenware 
jug  and  boiling  water  is  poured  slowly  on  to  it.  Then 
for  about  fifteen  minutes  it  rests  in  a  pan  of  water 
boihng  fiercely  on  the  stove,  stirred  once  or  twice,  and 
served  from  the  jug  at  the  table.  I  am  told  this  is 
old  Cornwall  fashion,  although  probably  invented  by 
the  Cornish  householder  Arnold  Bennett. 

My  friend  has  merits  besides  coffee.  She  has  a  view 
of  the  harbor,  where  the  great  cement  pyramids  of 
mystery  are  being  made.    (Fancy  an  Admiralty  secret 

317 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

remaining  a  secret,  when  a  public  votes  twenty  million 
pounds  for  the  construction  of  these  pyramids!)  And 
she  has  a  wiry  dog  who  sat  down  and  looked  at  me 
Searchingly  when  I  first  entered  the  house.  ''Will  she 
walk  me  as  far  as  the  chalk-pit?"  he  asked,  for  he 
measures  friendship  by  this.  And  there  is  a  garden, 
where  you  must  throw  a  ball  and  yet  not  knock  off 
the  fruit.  Within  the  garden,  or  the  house,  is  my 
hostess.  She  never  leaves  her  wheeled  chair,  and  yet, 
like  another  dear  shut-in  whom  I  visit  in  London, 
she  can  tell  me  more  of  what  is  going  on  in  the  world 
than  I  could  discover  if  I  spent  my  life  running  round 
the  earth.  She  lets  me  contend  fiercely  for  my  coun- 
try, and  she  flies  the  American  flag  when  I  come,  but 
her  walls  are  hung  with  the  battle-axes  of  her  an- 
cestors, and  while  she  doesn't  use  them  on  me,  I 
doubt  if  she  in  the  least  sympathizes  with  my 
radical  views.  I  am  her  guest,  and  can  do  no 
wrong;  and  that  is  a  bit  of  feudalism  which  I  trust 
will  never  die. 

I  go  to  a  house  down  in  Surrey,  arriving  early  at 
Waterloo  Station,  for  the  tracks  are  so  many  and  the 
village  so  small  which  marks  my  destination  that 
Waterloo  knows  very  little  about  it.  I  should  like 
to  transplant  this  house  to  the  hills  of  Westchester, 
just  to  show  what  we  can  do  in  England.  It  is  X^ng 
and  low  and  thatched,  vine-covered,  and,  thank  God! 
steam-heated.  Luck  comes  to  you  when  you  are 
within  those  walls,  for  a  house-leek  grows  upon  a  bit 
of  the  roof  that  is  tiled,  and  you  cannot  but  prosper, 
since  the  house-leek  thrives  there.  The  lawns  and 
meadows  slope  down  and  down  to  the  sea,  so  that 
you  can  glimpse  the  Isle  of  Wight  on  clear  days.    At 

least,  the  hostess  claims  that,  but  she  is  of  Italian 

318 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

blood — her  honest  EngUsh  husband  is  obhged  to 
deprecate  the  fancy. 

Then  there  is  Sonning,  with  a  start  from  Paddington 
Station,  compartment  doors  banging  agreeably  as  the 
Sunday-morning  traveler  goes  down  for  a  day  on  the 
river — the  river,  which,  of  course,  means  the  Thames. 
One  steps  down,  not  up,  into  the  house  I  visit  there, 
yet  there  is  no  sensation  of  damp,  and  one  can  but 
admire  these  sixteenth-century  habitations,  with  their 
fine  new  drains,  electric  lights,  and  tiled  bath-rooms. 

It  is  this  combination  of  Old- World  beauty  with 
New-World  comforts  which  ''gets"  the  American. 
At  times  I  almost  wish  this  combination  wasn't  so 
prevalent.  There  would  be  less  to  fight  against,  and 
I  give  an  eager  ear  to  servants'  troubles,  hoping  they 
will  be  insuperable,  as  they  were  in  my  case,  and 
make  me  want  to  go  home.  But  they  do  not  seem  to 
find  it  as  difficult  to  keep  servants  in  the  country  as 
we  do.  Besides,  we  have  all  grown  simpler  in  our 
tastes,  and  a  British  host  does  not  object,  as  our  men 
do  at  home,  to  helping  himself  and  others  on  a  Sun- 
day from  the  sideboard,  with  never  a  servant  in  sight. 

The  only  labor  trouble  that  was  agitating  my  hostess 
on  my  first  visit  to  Sonning  was  with  her  gardener. 
I  expected  to  see  a  bent  old  man,  too  blind  to  know 
a  tulip  bulb  from  a  potato,  and  was  touched  by  her 
liberalism  when  she  said  she  always  asked  the  gar- 
dener in  to  meals.  However,  the  gardener  elected  to 
go  to  the  inn  for  lunch,  and,  I  hope,  had  a  couple  of 
half-pints,  as  a  gardener  should  on  a  Sunday,  although 
I  discovered  him  to  be  a  lady  of  ver>'  superior  birth, 
if  not  superior  knowledge  of  gardening.  It  was  some- 
thing of  a  relief  not  to  have  her  at  table,  as  she  had 
been  given  her  notice  to  quit.    What  happy  results 

319 


AN    AMERICAN'S    LONDON 

to  be  found  in  the  garden — and  to  me  it  was  a  riot  of 
bloom — had  been  effected  through  the  efforts  of  a 
small  boy  the  lady-gardener  had  engaged  as  assistant. 

I  don't  know  why  the  aristocrat  refused  to  weed  and 
chp  and  spray,  as  I  suppose  even  an  aristocratic 
gardener's  job  depends  upon  her  efforts.  More  than 
that,  she  was  one  of  the  rebellious  girls  who  are  saying 
that  they  will  not  return  to  the  roof-trees  of  their 
fathers,  no  matter  whether  they  have  jobs  or  not. 
I  should  think  any  girl  would  prefer  to  garden  by  the 
river  at  Sonning  to  a  life  at  ''The  Towers,"  or  what- 
ever baronial  hall  she  came  from,  even  if  she  had  to 
labor  in  it,  and  I  shouldn't  think  it  would  be  very 
difficult,  anyway,  to  look  after  flowers  that  had  been 
told  for  centuries  how  to  behave. 

Indeed,  everything  is  cultivated  in  this  country — 
speech,  laAvns,  mamiers,  gooseberries,  plays,  acquaint- 
ances in  Tubes — everything.  And  the  worst  of  it 
was,  I  was  beginning  to  love  it,  yet  not  so  much  to 
love  it,  which  isn't  very  dangerous,  but  to  accept  it 
all  as  a  matter  of  beautiful  course.  Wliat  I  would 
notice  when  I  got  home  would  be  the  difference.  For 
there  I  would  find  a  raggedness  in  the  fields  and  an 
unfinished  air  to  the  little  towns,  and  the  imperfections 
of  our  country  roads;  and  I  would  miss  this  evenness 
of  life.  To  live  happily  in  America  one  must  find  his 
exhilaration  in  a  different  loveliness.  He  must  feel 
the  same  glow  that  came  into  the  face  of  a  young 
Englishman  who  had  had  ten  years  in  the  United 
States.  "We  can  see  cities  grow  out  here!"  he? ex- 
claimed to  one  of  his  nation  who  felt  the  loss  of 
Sussex  downs  and  Surrey  hills  and  the  polished,  pad- 
locked Thames. 

It  was  on  the  twenty-eighth  day  of  June,  the  day 

320 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

peace  was  signed  at  Versailles — on  my  way  to  the 
usual  matinee — that  I  turned  on  the  street  to  look 
after  a  passing  boy  because  his  accent  was  American. 
I  no  longer  noticed  an  English  accent,  and  I  had 
ceased  to  notice  whether  a  person  was  English  or 
American  if  his  accent  was  EngHsh.  The  American 
intonation,  I  reahzed  to  my  horror,  was  becoming 
abnormal.  It  was  on  that  day  I  sent  a  letter  to  my 
English  management  asking  that  I  might  return  be- 
fore the  autumn.  I  did  not  say  I  wanted  to  go  home 
because  I  was  growing  English,  for  I  wasn't — any 
EngHshman  could  tell  me  that.  But  I  didn't  want  to 
say  '^frock"  for  ''dress,"  or  "directly"  for  ''right 
away,"  or  think  in  EngUsh  money.  Yet  I  was  be- 
ginning to  do  it.  I  was  like  the  little  American  boy 
of  six,  who,  after  a  few  weeks  in  France,  began,  to 
his  great  perplexity,  introducing  French  words  into 
his  baby-English  sentences.  He  rebelled  against  it: 
"Why  must  I  do  this?"  I  heard  him  cry. 

So  I  wrote  the  letter,  and  I'm  glad  I  sent  it  before 
night  fell  on  that  Peace  Day,  before  the  traffic  was 
shut  off  in  the  streets  and  the  people  began  gathering 
for  their  soft,  happy  merrymaking.  Write  me  down 
an  American,  but  the  English  know  better  than  do 
we  how  to  carry  the  transcendent  moments  of  life. 
And  I  suppose  that,  too,  is  cultivated. 

When  Mafeking  was  reheved  during  the  Boer  War 
I  was  in  London.  I  was  in  the  audience  at  a  play, 
and  a  member  of  the  company  came  quickly  to  the 
footlights,  gasping,  "Ladies  and  gentlemen — I  have 
the  honor  to  announce  the  relief  of  Mafeking."  Where- 
at we  all  rose  as  one  man  and  asked  God  to  Save  the 
Queen.     Some  sort  of  a  performance  continued,  but 

the  roar  growing  in  the  Strand  dulled  the  meaning 

321 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

of  the  lines,  and  when  we  went  out  we  saw  the  kind 
of  a  scene  that  the  king  of  stage-directors  could 
rehearse  with  all  the  skilled  actors  of  the  world,  and 
then  get  nothing  of  gaiety  and  abandonment  in  com- 
parison. They  were  the  English,  rejoicing  after  weeks 
of  strange  doubt  of  their  invincibility.  They  were 
utterly  given  over  to  enjoying  themselves,  without 
the  aid  of  alcohol  or  rattles,  for  there  had  been  no 
time  for  such  diversion. 

Ever  since  then,  when  one  goes  roistering  in  Lon- 
don, it  is  said,  ''He  is  out  mafficking,"  yet  I,  who 
knew  the  tin  horn  of  the  Middle  West  on  election 
nights,  did  not  find  them  very  roisterous  even  then; 
and  on  this  sweet  June  eve  they  simply  came  together 
and  jigged  in  the  streets,  swung  their  partners,  changed 
hats,  did  a  little  kissing  and  jigged  again.  I  walked 
home  after  the  play  that  night,  and  the  whole  length 
of  Piccadilly  was  given  over  to  little  knots  of  dancers, 
strangers  meeting  for  the  first  time,  one  man — gen- 
erally a  soldier — playing  on  a  mouth-organ.  Back 
and  forth  went  the  two  opposing  rows,  back  and  forth, 
with  little  springy  steps.  There  was  no  shouting,  no 
swearing,  just  back  and  forth  quite  silently,  while 
the  soldier  with  the  mouth-organ  danced  and  played. 

It  took  me  an  hour  to  get  home,  for  I  lingered  with 
the  crowds  watching  the  dancers  and  found  it  easy 
to  talk  with  every  one.  A  stranger  with  an  accent 
I  couldn't  locate  told  me  out  of  a  clear  sky  that  he 
was  a  Secret  Service  man,  which  freedom  of  expression 
is  hardly  one's  idea  of  a  man  on  secret  service  bent; 
but,  fib  or  no,  he  informed  me  that  he  had  conducted 
one  of  our  great  financiers  all  along  the  British  front 
during  the  war,  that  the  civilian  gentleman  was  many 
times  under  fire,  vet  he  never  batted  an  eyelid.    "In 

322 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

a  manner  of  speaking,  he's  the  kind  of  a  man  a  bullet 
couldn't  touch,"  he  said,  admiringly.  ''He's  the  kind 
of  a  man  that  nothink  couldn't  touch." 

And  while  I  know  ''nothink"  of  the  invulnerability 
of  this  rich  compatriot,  I  immediately  grew  sorry  for 
him.  For  if  he  could  not  be  touched  he  could  probably 
touch  nothing,  neither  the  ceiling  nor  the  floor,  neither 
the  heights  nor  depths  of  life.  All  those  people  dancing 
jig-steps  in  the  streets  had  been  touched  by  the  bul- 
lets of  the  war,  and  now  they  were  transcendently 
happy  for  a  little  wliile.  Sorrow  will  come  to  them 
once  more — rain  in  their  Uves,  then  again  sun,  and  a 
rainbow.  I,  a  very  tired  woman,  was  standing  on  the 
edge  of  the  dancers,  whereas  in  earlier  days  I  would 
have  been  of  the  dancers.  Surely  time  had  touched 
me.  Yet  I  decided  that  my  age  is  about  the  last 
thing  I'd  give  up,  for  within  those  years  my  feet  have 
known  the  earth,  my  head  the  heavens. 


Chapter  XIX 

''H  '^    TfHO'LL  buy  my  lavender?"  sang  a  ven- 

\  ^^  /    der  in  the  street.    His  voice  was  full  and 

^  y       resonant  and  the  old,  old  words  with 

the  old,  old  tune  discouraged  further  idle  dabs  at  a 

.modern  typewriter. 

The  upper  chambermaid  came  to  the  window  with 
me.  She  said  that  it  reminded  her  of  home,  not  that 
they  sing  it  there;  nobody  would  buy  lavender  in 
Mitchim — that's  where  it  grows.  She  enjoyed  seeing 
it  in  the  city  streets,  she  went  on  to  say — it  was 
country-like.  When  it  comes  right  down  to  it  she'd 
rather  see  those  fragrant  stalks  in  the  streets  than  in 
the  fields,  but  it  was  nice  to  know  that  the  country 
was  going  on — somewhere — and  that  she  could  go 
back  to  it  if  she  wanted  to — which  she  didn't.  This 
was  slightly  abstruse  yet  more  edifying  than  the  sub- 
ject she  had  been  previously  pursuing.  That  had 
been  all  about  the  club  portress — a  fine,  strapping 
Irish  girl,  free  from  guile  to  look  at,  who,  in  reality, 
smoked  cigarettes.    ''Smokes  'em  furious,  ma'am." 

''Who'll  buy  my  lavender?"  asked  the  man,  looking 
so  directly  at  me  that  I  was  obliged  to  shout  back, 
"I  will,"  and  sent  the  maid  down  with  some  pennies. 
My  clarion  response  caused  such  of  the  street  as  were 
taking  the  air  to  look  up  at  me,  and  the  chauffeur, 
waiting  at  the  house  with  the  blue  tablet,  throttled 
dov/n  his  engine  so  suddenly  that  he  shut  off  his  power, 

324 


II      %' 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

and  then  stared  reproachfully,  for  he  had  no  self- 
starter. 

He  got  out  and  began  to  crank  the  car  and  the  butler 
and  footman  continued  carrying  out  small  trunks  and 
dressing-cases,  laundry-bags,  and  all  the  odd  para- 
phernalia which  traveling  Enghshmen  burden  them- 
selves with.  They  stored  certain  impedimenta  within 
the  Umousine,  but  such  as  had  to  go  on  top  were  left 
for  the  chauffeur,  as  the  duties  of  English  servants 
are  sharply  defined  and  they  had  nothing  to  do  with 
roofs.  The  master  and  mistress  then  came  out,  and 
the  lady,  very  unsuitably  gotten  up  in  a  tulle  scarf 
(and  other  garments  of  a  like  ephemeral  character), 
said  she^d  buy  some  lavender,  too.  It  is  a  custom  for 
the  best  people  to  buy  lavender,  and  she  would  not 
depart  from  it  even  though  she  was  going  straight 
onto  mauveish  moors.  She  handed  the  dried,  acrid 
grasses  to  a  maid  fitly  garbed  in  a  print  of  purplish 
hue — indeed  all  the  maids  of  that  house  wore  those 
colors,  contrasting  very  well  with  the  painter's  maids 
next  door  who  wore  scarlet  linen.  Then  the  servants 
bowed  to  the  master  and  mistress  and  the  great  lady 
waved  her  hand  to  the  cook,  hoping  no  doubt  that 
she  would  remain  in  her  service,  for  she  looked  a  good 
cook.  ''Be  sure  to  keep  the  flags  flying,"  the  master 
exhorted.  And  off  they  went  to  escape,  as  every  one 
knew  in  the  street,  the  crowds  of  Peace  Week. 

The  chambermaid  returned  with  my  purchase  and 
had  gathered — besides  it — that  the  vender  had  just 
been  demobbed.  As  the  discharge  occurred  at  lav- 
ender-time he  took  it  as  a  h'omen  and  he  returned 
in;imediately  to  his  musical  trade.  He  had  told  her, 
too,  that  he  hadn't  been  afraid  when  fighting  in  the 

trenches  exceptin'  a-losing  Ms  voice  from  damp.   The 

325 


•AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

two  had  both  watched  the  occupants  of  the  tableted 
house  roll  away  and  both  had  agreed  that  the  country 
was  dull  enough  at  any  time,  but  to  go  down  to  it 
this  week,  and  miss  the  Victory  Procession!— she 
snorted  and  whisked  the  bed-linen  about. 

I  was  then  obliged  to  tell  her  that  I  was  not  going 
to  see  the  procession  either,  that  I  was  going  to  make 
every  effort  to  avoid  the  crowds  in  attendance  upon 
it,  because — very  piously — I  had  a  matinee  and  a 
night  performance  and  must  keep  in  condition  for 
my  work.  All  of  us  in  life  must  think  first  of  our 
sacred  duty,  I  continued,  and  I  might  have  gone  on 
with  more  worthy  aphorisms  was  I  not  finding,  for 
the  first  time  in  my  existence,  a  certain  hollowness 
in  these  utterances.  My  work — my  work  was  taking 
on  a  minor  importance  as  compared  with  mere  fes- 
tivities, and  this  desire  to  keep  away  from  crowds, 
when  I  put  my  smugness  into  words,  sounded  pica- 
yunish — just  picayunish. 

I  was  considerably  confused  over  this  and  the  maid 
did  not  encourage  my  attitude  by  any  eulogistic 
utterances  anent  my  stern  denials.  If  she  had  been 
of  my  walk  in  hfe  I  beUeve  she  would  have  said, 
''Stuff!"  She  certainly  looked  ''Stuff!"  and  she  con- 
tinued to  flap  sheets  distressingly  about  like  signals 
for  help.  She  wished  to  be  protected  froni  this  woman 
who  refused  to  abandon  herself  to  the  madcap  mood 
of  the  world. 

I  went  out  for  a  walk  in  Green  Park,  my  writing 
uncompleted.  Even  in  its  farthest  recesses  the  air 
was  full  of  the  sound  of  hammers,  yet  no  one  seemed 
to  be  disturbed  by  it  but  the  sheep  and  myself— 
myself  and  sheep  pursuing  our  accustomed  ways! 
Over  in  the  Mall  the  decorators,  in  a  fury  of  energy, 

326 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON     ' 

were  forgetting  they  were  British  workmen  with  stern 
beliefs  as  to  a  restricted  output.  Thousands  of  wood 
ammunition-cases  were  being  utihzed  as  the  founda- 
tion for  tiers  of  seats  along  the  Mall,  which  were  to 
be  reserved  for  the  wounded  and  for  the  mothers  of 
sons  killed  in  action.  The  royal  pavilion  was  already 
shining  white  and  gold  at  the  foot  of  the  Victoria 
Memorial.  High  above  the  living  royalties,  Victoria, 
in  stone,  would  see  that  passing  show — she  who  had 
been  assured  by  her  generals  that  no  war  with  the 
British  Empire  could  endure  longer  than  a  month, 
and  had  watched  in  grief  the  protracted  struggle 
with  the  Boers. 

I  walked  up  to  a  great  hotel  in  Knightsbridge  where 
the  procession  would  first  unfurl  its  banners.  Every 
available  bit  of  space  in  hotel  window  and  balcony 
was  for  rent — the  sum  amassed  to  go  to  the  blind  of 
St.  Dunstan's  Hospital.  It  gave  me  a  sudden  pain 
down  the  nose  and,  assuming  a  languid  interest,  I 
asked  the  price  of  a  very  good  seat.  But  there  were 
no  very  good  seats  or  very  bad  seats — they  had  all 
been  sold.  Earlier  in  the  week  I  might  have  pro- 
cured one  for  five  guineas.  I  turned  away  trying  to 
feel  twenty-five  dollars  richer,  but  I  did  not  feel  so 
very  rich  although  I  had  a  steady  job — a  steady,  yes, 
an  inflexible  job,  with  a  weekly  recurrent  envelope. 

There  was  a  luncheon-party  on  that  day  and  the 
hostess  pardoned  me  affably  for  my  tardiness  when 
I  explained  that  I  had  been  standing  at  a  hotel  door 
watching  the  American  officers  arrive.  "I  was  not 
able  to  get  out  of  the  crowd,"  I  stiffly  explained. 
It  was  not  the  truth ;  I  could  have  gotten  out,  but  some 
good  reason  must  be  offered,  ordinarily,  for  spoilmg 
the  fish  course.    Yet  no  one  seemed  to  care  about  the 

22  327 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

food  at  tliis  luncheon — all  interests  were  centered 
upon  what  they  should  put  up  for  the  lunch  on 
Saturday;  who  would  buy  the  picldes,  who  the  sand- 
wiches, who  the  cakes.  This  went  on  at  every  gather- 
ing throughout  the  week.  Fashionable  as  well  as 
lowly  London  was  thrashing  itself  into  a  fever  of 
excitement  over  the  advisabiUty  of  stuffed  eggs  in  the 
baskets. 

I  protested  over  this.  "You're  like  a  picnic-party 
in  La  Porte,  Indiana!    It's  all  so  young!" 

''It's  the  day  to  be  young,"  one  of  them  answered, 
blithely.    "Now  I  contend  that  sardines — " 

Yet,  always,  always  through  these  discussions  of 
edibles  ran  a  somber  note — a  shadow  which  occasion- 
ally eclipsed  the  sunshine  of  their  gay  talk:  "If  it 
should  rain!"  some  one  would  whisper.  Now  as  a 
rule  the  Briton  is  seldom  distressed  over  what  is  only 
a  possibility,  and  rain  does  not  enter  into  British 
lives  until  it  is  wetting  their  bonnets.  There  seems 
to  be,  to  them,  always  an  element  of  surprise  in  the 
discovery  that  the  clouds  are  emptying  themselves 
upon  the  patient  lawn  fete.  "Why,  it's  raining!"  they 
exclaim,  and  crowd  into  the  marquee.  The  lawn 
fete  is  then  in  American  eyes  a  failure.  They  are 
sorry  for  the  hostess  the  while  reflecting  that  she 
had  to  learn  her  lesson.  Yet  the  following  year  she 
gives  another  garden-party — which  is  spent,  per  usual, 
anywhere  but  in  the  garden. 

Since  the  war  the  Londoners  pay  even  less  atten- 
tion to  watery  demonstrations  against  their  comfort. 
With  all  England,  men  and  women,  in  uniform,  um- 
brellas went  out  of  fashion  and  are  still  the  exception 
in  the  street.  Or,  in  their  proud  optimism,  they  may 
consider  themselves  impervious  to  a  mean  chemical 

328 


j!^i|i{MiiBigpBWW.i*'<iipMiiajja^ 


"if  it  siiori.i)  kain!" 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

combination  of  oxygen  and  hydrogen.  They  may  be 
like  a  kinswoman  of  mine  who,  having  recently  em- 
braced a  religion  of  faith,  was  besought  by  me  to  seek 
shelter  from  a  shower.  "I  don't  get  wet,"  said  the 
aggravating  religieuse. 

Of  the  more  import,  then,  were  the  prayerful  silences 
which  followed  the  occasional  whisper:  *'If  it  should 
rain!"  All  London  was  suffering,  even  as  they 
brought  forth  their  bunting,  from  an  apprehension  as 
vague  as  the  outline  of  the  Zeppelins  which  once 
brooded  above  them,  yet  as  devastating  to  their 
happiness.  For  all  London  was  suffering  from  the 
menace  of  their  more  ancient  foe — the  weather. 

Although  I  was  by  now  noisily  claiming  to  be 
"fed  up"  with  processions,  this  terrible  thought  of 
a  wet  day  began  beating  through  my  brain.  In  my 
eagerness  for  a  clear  day,  just  for  the  sake  of  les  autres, 
I  got  into  a  panic  of  distrust  over  my  achieving  in 
life  those  things  for  which  I  have  most  fondly  hoped; 
and  I  wondered  if  I  had  not  better  pray  that  it  would 
rain  so  that  it  contrarily  wouldnH.  Yes,  and  do  it 
aloud,  if  that  would  help  things  any,  even  though  my 
mates  in  the  theater  would  translate  my  wish  as  one 
emanating  from  a  low  dog  who — which — would  be 
going  through  its  tricks  at  a  matinee,  bone-dry,  except 
when  standing  in  those  spots  where  the  roof  leaked. 

I  must  not  call  it  an  inhospitable  roof,  however, 
even  though  porous,  for  on  the  night  I  was  cogitating 
on  the  best  way  for  me,  personally,  to  effect  fine 
weather  on  Saturday  I  came  into  the  theater  to  find 
the  littlest  girl  reading  a  notice  on  the  call-board. 
It  was  a  very  remarkable  notice — nothing  like  it  had 
ever  been  hung  there  before — not  in  two  hundred 
years — and  nothing  like  it  will  ever  hang  there  again, 

329 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

probably.  It  was  signed  by  the  lessee  of  the  old 
house  inviting  the  members  of  the  company  and  the 
Btage  crew  who  lived  remotely  from  the  theater  to 
bring  their  blankets  and  spend  Victory  night  under 
its  broad,  sheltering  wings.  Traffic  in  the  heart  of 
the  city  would  be  shut  off  at  nine  in  the  morning,  and 
the  Tubes,  while  running  all  night  under  patriotic, 
voluntary  service,  would  be  the  only  means  of  moving 
some  eight  million  citizens  and  countless  visitors  from 
one  distance  to  another. 

I  do  not  know  why  I  was  so  thrilled  by  this.  It 
may  not  thrill  the  reader,  but  the  enormity  of  the 
hour  began  to  take  hold  of  me.  I  felt  conscious  of 
the  restricted  plan  for  the  day  as  laid  down  by  one 
meanly  hampered,  it  seemed  now,  by  a  hysterical 
sense  of  duty.  I  felt  like  some  small  infant  tied  in 
a  chair  and  hearing  the  far-off  band  of  the  circus.  It 
was  then,  as  I  stood  by  the  side  of  the  littlest  girl, 
that  I  ventured  a  fear  it  might  rain — although  not 
yet  craftily  expressing  the  actual  desire  that  it  should 
rain.  I  would  withhold  this  master-stroke  until  later, 
when  the  weather  probabilities  became  gloomy  actu- 
alities. But  I  got  no  farther  with  the  littlest  girl 
than  the  first  negative  breath,  for  she  hushed  me  up 
as  though  I  had  committed  treason,  and  by  the  time 
she  was  through  pumping  new-thought  principles  into 
me  I  felt  that  the  success  of  the  entire  parade  rested 
upon  my  putting  the  ''good  thought"  on  the  sun — 
and  ''treating"  the  rain  with  firm  suggestions  to  stay 
away. 

"Make  a  cheerful  asseveration,"  she  bade  me.  "It 
doesn't  matter  very  much  what  you  say,  so  that  you 
are  concentrating  on  the  good,  the  true,  and  the 
beautiful." 

330 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

Mindful  of  her  advice,  I  kept  repeating  inwardly, 
as  I  spoke  the  lines  of  the  play  that  night,  a  phrase 
that  had  a  familiar,  hopeful  beat  which  I  did  not 
actually  define  until  the  final  curtain,  when  the  com- 
pany gathered  about  me  to  ask  why  I  said  it. 

"Why  I  said  what?"  I  demanded,  in  turn. 

''Said  what  you  did  instead  of  the  tag?"  The  tag 
is  the  last  line  of  the  play,  and  in  this  instance  is, 
*'My  country,  'tis  of  thee,"  repeated  in  unison. 

''Well,  what  did  I  say?"  I  snapped. 

"You  said,  'Curfew  shall  not  ring  to-night,'"  they 
jeered. 

And  I  suppose  I  did  repeat  it,  which  I  still  think" 
better  than  an  oft-chanted,  "The  shun  shall  shine  on 
Shaturday!" 

When  we  left  the  theater  that  evening  we  were 
swept  up  in  a  happy  procession  of  singing  soldiers 
and  their  girls  marching  to  Foch's  hotel  to  bring  him 
out  on  the  balcony  with  their  cheers.  It  was  delightful 
folly,  for  all  of  us  knew  that  Foch  was  at  the  Alhambra. 
Everybody  knew  how  every  general  was  spending  his 
evening.  We  in  the  street  spoke  only  of  men  of  rank 
through  this  week.  Beatty  was  dining  quietly  with 
friends;  Pershing  was  at  a  dance  where  a  beautiful 
lady  knelt  and  removed  his  spurs;  the  Italians  were 
being  banqueted;  all  of  this  talk  while  murmurs  of 
regret  were  heard  among  the  plain  people  that  Sims 
was  not  present — probably  the  most  popular  American 
London  has  found  pleasure  in  honoring. 

The  crowd  waited  until  Foch  returned,  and  sang 
to  him,  but  I  went  on  up  the  Haymarket  where  at 
the  head  of  the  street  the  traffic  had  been  stopped 
for  a  moment  while  the  United  States  troops  marched 
out  of  a  music-hall.    That  I  could  not  see  them,  hop 

331 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

up  in  the  air  as  I  might,  gave  me  a  gnawing  sensation 
akin  to  hunger,  and  which,  hke  hunger,  was  not  to 
be  assuaged  by  any  pictured  representation  of  food. 
I  was  not  going  to  be  content,  as  I  had  tried  to  com- 
fort myself,  with  a  very  good  view  of  those  boys  in  the 
films  the  following  Sunday  evening.  It  must  be  flesh 
and  blood  with  me.  "Fee — fi — fo — fum"  mingled 
through  my  dreams  with  '^  Curfew  shall  not  ring 
to-night!" 

It  was  a  feeble-minded  boy  in  David  Copperfield 
who  sold  the  spoons  and  spent  his  ill-gotten  gains 
riding  on  the  top  of  a  bus  from  Putney  to  the  Bank. 
It  may  have  been  a  feeble-minded  woman  who  spent 
what  part  of  the  next  day  she  could  riding  up  and 
down  on  No.  9  bus,  peering  over  the  railings  of  Ken- 
sington Gardens,  to  see  our  troops  who  were  quartered 
there.  The  gates  of  the  gardens  were  closed  and 
locked  to  all  but  soldiers.  They  were  within  in  the 
company  of  Peter  Pan,  and  possibly  no  one  had  a  key 
but  Barrie,  who  must  have  been  too  staggered  at  the 
strange  invasion  to  use  it.  Barrie's  little  friends 
could  not  travel  the  Broad  Walk,  nor  sail  boats  on 
the  Round  Pond,  and  outside  the  palings  rebellious 
perambulators  held  stormy  meetings  and  drafted 
letters  of  protest  to  the  Times.  Little  girls  looked 
wistfully  through  the  iron  interstices,  but  they  could 
see  no  more  of  the  men  in  uniform  than  could  the 
feather-brained  woman  lurching  along  on  No.  9. 

I  do  not  know  what  determination  entered  into 
their  baby  souls  to  meet  those  boys  later  on,  even 
if  they  had  to  marry  them,  but  a  mighty  resolve  came 
to  me  to  see  my  troops  on  the  march,  though  the 
effort  would,  in  a  measure,  disturb  the  set  order  of  a 
matinee  day.    For  by  this  time  I  undoubtedly  wanted 

332 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

to  view  the  procession,  not  as  the  infant  tied  in  her 
chair  would  want  to  view  a  circus  parade — for  one's 
temporary  enjoyment — but  to  be  ever  so  small  a 
part  of  the  most  momentous  day  in  history.  Surely 
every  spectator  added  to  the  throngs  who  would  for- 
gather would  pay,  by  his  presence,  molecular  tribute 
to  the  men  who  were  passing  in  review — and  to  those 
who  would  not  pass  along  the  ways  of  life  again. 

It  was  at  this  period  of  growth  that  I  fell  a  victim 
to  the  periscope  scheme.  I  heard  of  it  first  on  top 
of  the  bus  and  followed  two  decayed  gentlewomen 
down  to  the  shop  where  periscopes  were  to  be  pur- 
chased. The  gentlewomen  objected  to  crowds,  they 
thought  them  indelicate,  but  they  agreed  that  a 
periscope  could  be  no  more  bothersome  than  a  sun- 
shade and  would  probably  attract  no  more  attention 
— which  was  quite  true  unless  I  could  mentally  treat 
the  sun.  Over  in  Westminster  the  army  were  selling 
off  hundreds  of  this  new  form  of  military  equipment, 
but  we  contented  ourselves  with  modest  affairs  that, 
by  careful  manipulation,  would  bring  mirrored  gen- 
erals to  our  close  observance  even  though  we  stood 
on  the  far  edge  of  the  vulgar  herd.  With  one  of  these 
implements  in  hand  I  planned  that  on  Saturday  I 
would  walk  toward  the  Mall,  going  matin<^e-ward, 
and,  as  in  a  dark  glass  darkly,  cheer  our  troops  upon 
their  way.  The  thought  was  not  exhilarating,  how- 
ever. I  can  imagine  nothing  more  pathetic  than 
cheering  into  a  small  mirror  hoisted  high  in  the  air, 
and  I  did  not  notice  until  I  unwrapped  my  periscope 
at  home  that  the  pictured  directions  showed  a  gentle- 
man gaining  happy,  peering  results  by  lying  down  in 
a  rough  field.  My  imagination  did  not  embrace  with 
^^y  joy  the  prospect  of  becoming  one  of  a  string  of 

333 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

prostrate  old  ladies  stretched  along  the  line  cf  march, 
but  it  was  the  next  best  thing  to  viewing  the  heroes 
from  a  seat  which  I  felt  I  could  not  afford,  and  if 
uncomfortable  striving  counts  for  anything  I  would 
surely  be  paying  a  tribute  to  the  greatness  of  the  hour. 

Wliile  I  was  now  concentrating  whole-heartedly  on 
good  weather  and  was  beginning  to  feel  that  I  was 
going  to  bring  it  about  (perhaps),  I  had  not  the 
supreme  faith  of  the  littlest  girl,  who  was  by  this  time 
asserting  that  'Hhe  good,  the  true,  and  the  beautiful" 
were  going  to  arrange  for  her  to  see  the  show  and  not 
spend  five  guineas  for  a  seat  either.  She  said  I  could 
see  it,  too,  if  I  would  just  believe. 

''But  how  can  I  believe  when  I  don't?"  I  wailed. 
And  to  this  she  replied  that  faith  would  come  with 
study,  which  did  me  very  little  good  as,  cram  as  I 
might,  I  could  never  manage  it  until  several  weeks 
after  the  parade  was  over. 

That    was    the    night — Thursday    night — that    I 

climbed  up  little  ladders  to  the  theater  roof,  at  the 

risk  of  making  a  frightful  stage  wait,  to  see  if  it  would 

be  possible  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  marching  troops 

from  that  high  vantage  point.     I  scrambled  down 

again  and  played  the  next  scene  with  dirty  hands, 

my  purpose  defeated,  for  I  could  not  have  caught  so 

much  as  the  glint  of  a  tin  hat  passing  through  the 

Admiralty  Arch.    But  the  few  minutes  alone  up  there,. 

the  anxious  call-boy  at  the  foot  of  the  ladder,  had 

given  me  something  else  besides  dirty  hands.      As  I 

looked  down  from  the  serene  height  upon  the  London 

I  had  grown  to  love,  it  seemed  to  me  that  it  was 

holding  its  breath  in  suspense;  that  from  now  on 

i|ntil  the  first  crash  of  chords  Saturday  morning  the 

movement  of  the  city  would  be  but  perfunctory — 

334 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

that  the  masses  of  the  people  witliin  the  shops  and 
houses  were  spiritually  at  pause.  This  comes  to  me 
every  Saturday  before  the  break  of  Easter  Day— 
this  waiting.  The  sensation  surely  must  preface  the 
birth  of  a  child  and  that  instant  before  the  zero  hour 
of  an  attack. 

So,  as  well  as  unclean  digits,  I  brought  to  the  audi- 
ence in  the  next  scene  a  woman  with  a  high  resolve — ■ 
who  was  playing  her  role  far  too  emotionally  as  the 
result  of  it;  although  the  darlings  out  front  would 
have  certainly  forgiven  me  had  I  advanced  to  the 
footlights  and  said,  ''Ladies  and  gentlemen — I  am 
going  to  see  that  procession!" 

If  the  faith  of  the  littlest  girl  amounts  to  anything 
it  must  have  been  that  I  had  not  really  resolved  to 
see  the  procession  until  my  visit  to  the  roof  and, 
having  firmly  made  up  my  mind,  the  way  was  made 
clear  for  me  to  see  it.  American  mail  came  in  before 
the  performance  was  over,  and  when  I  opened  my 
letters  at  the  end  of  the  play  out  of  one  of  them  fell 
a  check.  It  represented  the  price  of  a  picture  of  one 
who  would  no  longer  make  them,  who  was  no  longer 
here,  yet  whose  care  of  me  went  on  now  and  then  in 
this  quiet  demonstration  of  the  deathlessness  of  those 
who  have  created. 

I  was  glad  that  I  was  alone  witji  Mrs.  Wren  when 
the  envelope  was  opened,  for,  all  through  the  season, 
this  dear  woman  was,  somehow  or  other,  part  of 
every  harmonious  moment.  She  had  ever  lent  her 
goodness  and  her  interest  to  making  the  hour  happier. 
There  were  always  two  of  us  gleeful,  if  I  was  full  of 
glee.  As  I  looked  at  the  check,  with  the  dollars 
transcribed  into  pounds,  she  was  busying  herself  hid- 
ing bottles.    Mrs.  Wren  and  I  had  been  smuggling  in 

335 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

liquid  refreshment  for  several  days,  although  of  this 
she  had  not  entirely  approved.  She  had  said,  out 
flat,  I  had  better  spend  the  money  for  a  seat  and  not 
mess  it  about  in  a  general  merrymaking,  and  tliis  was 
generous  in  her  as  she  and  the  other  dressers  and  all 
the  stage  crew  were  to  come  in  on  the  bottles  Victory 
Night.  But  it  had  been  my  theory,  earlier  in  the  week, 
that  several  molecules  paying  tribute  to  the  day 
would  be  a  better  way  of  celebrating  than  the  spend- 
ing of  a  like  sum  on  a  small  camp-stool  which  would 
be  enjoyed  by  but  one  molecule. 

When  I  called  Mrs.  Wren  to  look  at  the  check  and 
told  her  that  it  represented  an  etching  made  many 
years  ago,  she  did  not  exclaim  over  it  as  a  little  bit 
of  all  right,  or  suggest  that  I  might  now  get  that  gown 
at  the  sale  in  Bond  Street,  but  she  touched  the  bit 
of  paper  awesomely  as  she  whispered,  ''It's  like  a  voice, 
isn't  it,  madam?" 

"What  does  it  say?"  I  asked. 

"It  says  you're  to  see  the  procession,"  said  this 
countrywoman.    "It  crossed  the  water  to  say  that." 

I  suppose  the  littlest  girl  would  have  thought  so, 
too,  but  I  never  told  her.  It  was  Mrs.  Wren's  beau- 
tiful secret  and  mine.  And  I  went  out  into  the  early 
morning  the  next  day  to  search  for  a  place,  feeling 
not  quite  alone — that  some  one  was  with  me  who 
had  so  longed  for  this  day  that  he  was  not,  even  now, 
quite  unconscious  of  the  earthly  beauty  of  its  approach. 

The  following  morning  I  went  out  even  earlier, 
the  exaltation  of  the  moment  not  soaring,  dragged 
down  a  bit  by  the  material  struggling  for  stuffed  eggs 
in  my  lunch-box.  The  words  that  John  Drinkwater 
has  given  to  our  martyred  chief  in  his  play  of  "Abra- 
ham Lincoln"  recurred  to  me  as  I  made  my  way 

336 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

practically  toward  the  Tube.  "For  four  yesxs  life 
has  been  but  the  hope  of  this  moment.  It  is  strange 
how  simple  it  is  when  it  comes."  So  luncheon,  flags, 
periscope,  police  pass,  and  myself  went  into  the  Tube 
out  of  the  pale  but  durable  sunshine  for  which  I  had 
arranged.  As  my  Irish  waitress  had  said  when  she 
brought  in  my  early  coffee,  ''The  day  is  better  than 
it  looks." 

The  trains  were  not  greatly  crowded,  and  until  I 
reached  the  surface  at  Trafalgar  Square  I  thought  I 
was  the  only  one  in  London  who  had  sufficient  brains 
to  start  early.  I  recall  a  family  of  six  who,  before  they 
entered  the  lift  which  carried  us  to  the  street,  agreed 
that  they  would  move  toward  the  lions  in  the  square 
(but  not  so  as  to  give  to  the  world  an  inkling  of  their 
plan)  and  climb  upon  the  backs  of  one  of  the  beasts. 
They  were  not  greedy — they  would  not  sit  upon  all 
the  great  bronze  animals. 

I  should  like  to  know  what  became  of  that  family. 
I  did  not  know  what  became  of  me  for  the  first  few 
minutes  after  I  was  swept  into  the  maelstrom.  I 
remember  getting  my  hands  up  high  enough  to  show 
a  constable  my  pass  proving  that  I  had  a  seat  on  a 
balconj''  about  sixty  feet  away  in  Whitehall,  and  a 
certain  cynical  look  in  his  eyes  as  he  gave  me  full 
permission  to  go  ahead.  Yet  half  an  hour  afterward 
I  was  still  marking  time  a  few  feet  farther  back  than 
my  original  starting-place.  Trafalgar  Square  was  one 
solid  mass  of  people,  with  no  lions  whatever  in  sight, 
all  having  been  covered  up  by  the  microbe,  man,  since 
before  sunrise. 

After  a  while  I  began  talking.  I  began  telling  a 
disinterested  pu])lic  that  I  had  a  balcony  seat  in 
^Vhitehall.  ''Righto,  old  deai-,"  one  crushed  pedestrian 

3.37 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

sang  out  finally.  '^Go  and  sit  on  it!"  While  this 
created  some  amusement,  it  also  drew  attention  to 
me,  and  a  kindly  coster  advised  me  if  an  ambulance 
passed  through  to  Northumberland  Avenue  to  get 
well  down  and  be'ind  it  and  keep  moving.  It  sounded 
like  a  joke — something  like  the  frolicsome  advice  to 
"^go  jump  in  the  river."  I  had  not  paid  a  large  price 
for  a  seat  in  Whitehall  to  crawl  under  an  ambulance 
going  down  Northumberland  Avenue.  I  was  inclined 
to  tell  him  so,  angrily,  but  my  ill  humor  would  have 
been  out  of  place  among  these  amazing  people,  not 
one  ten-thousandth  of  whom  would  get  more  than  a 
roll  of  drums  as  their  part  of  the  day's  festivities,  and 
yet  who  were  swaying  and  smiling  with  the  rest 
through  all  this  rib-cracking. 

It  was  by  swaying  and  smiling  that  I  did  insinuate 
myself  behind,  and  almost  under,  an  ambulance,  and, 
like  one  on  a  penance,  made  my  way  insidiously 
against  the  crowd  down  the  avenue.  It  is  extraor- 
dinary when  one  gets  into  a  side-street  after  a  crush. 
One  feels  that  the  mob  must  surely  have  been  dissi- 
pated, but  while  it  was  still  going  on,  and  very  much 
so,  when  I  turned  into  lower  Whitehall  I  could  man- 
age, before  I  gained  my  seat,  to  buy  a  wreath  and 
lay  it  among  the  thousands  of  others  heaped  about  the 
Cenotaph. 

It  took  the  greatest  day  in  history  for  me  to  learn 
that  a  cenotaph  is  a  moument  erected,  not  over  the 
dead  in  the  ground  beneath,  but  in  memory  of  those 
elsewhere  buried.  But  after  seeing  this  one  I  shall 
never  define  the  word  as  anything  but  a  simple  piling 
up  of  hewed  stone,  lowly  expressing  a  lowly  grief. 
I  mean  lowly  in  the  sense  of  humble,  unalloyed  by 
pomp  and  circumstance,  a  common  unity  of  tears  for 

338 


AN  AMERICiS^'S  LONDON 

those  who  died  for  a  common  cause.  When  the 
temporary  monument  becomes  enduring  granite  this 
will  probably  be  a  spot,  as  it  is  to-day,  where  the 
English  will  unleash  their  emotions,  where  they  will 
cry  unashamedly.  Some  will  lay  down  their  scrubby 
bouquet  of  ill-assorted  flowers,  with  "Joey,"  or  ''Bill," 
or  *'My  boy"  scrawled  upon  the  card;  others  will  place 
there  a  wreath  of  orchids,  but  the  inscriptions  will 
read  the  same,  and  all  the  offerings  will  blend  together 
in  the  blessed  democracy  of  flowers. 

The  British  Empire  has  as  yet  no  day  for  its  dead, 
but  from  the  scenes  about  the  Cenotaph  it  was  not 
hard  to  realize  how  they  would  give  their  hearts  to 
a  Memorial  Day  like  ours.  When  some  five  hundred 
Americans  took  the  train  to  Brookficld  Cemetery  on 
the  30th  of  May  to  decorate  the  graves  of  our  soldiers 
buried  there,  a  number  of  Englishmen  came  with  us 
and  entered  into  our  service — with  their  own  men 
in  their  hearts,  I  hope.  An  English  gentlewoman, 
who  had  come  down  alone,  stood  by  me  when  we 
reached  God's  acre  for  the  Americans,  and  after 
looking  over  the  names  on  the  first  headstones  that 
met  her  eye,  said  she  would  be  prajdng  for  all  the 
world.  For  of  the  first  ten  graves  of  this  row,  two 
were  Saxon,  two  Italian,  one  Irish,  one  Greek,  one 
Pole,  one  Russian,  one  of  a  nationality  unknown  to 
us,  and  one  well  known,  a  German  name.  It  may 
have  been  the  recognition  of  this  dead  boy  of  Teuton 
origin  which  caused  her  to  add  that  she  hoped  when 
the  Empire  did  set  aside  a  memorial  day  that  it 
would  be  the  30th  of  May  also,  and  that  in  time  all 
nations  might  lay  wreaths  at  one  universal  hour  upon 
the  graves  of  those  who  had  died  for  their  country. 
She  felt  that  it  would  create  a  great  unity  of  spirit. 

339 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

While  she  may  be  entirely  wrong  I  thought  it  was 
most  generous  of  her,  and  wished  we  all  had  a  kindred 
League  of  Nations  in  our  breasts.  She  hoped  for 
something  else — this  fine  lady  whom  I  shall  never  see 
again  probably.  She  hoped  that  some  American  who 
wrote  was  among  the  number  that  day,  that  the 
mothers  whose  boys  lay  there  might  know  how  beau- 
tiful was  the  place — how  the  birds  sang — and  how 
every  year  my  own  club  of  American  women  will 
lay  a  garland  upon  each  grave.  So,  while  not  many 
mothers  will  read  my  story,  perhaps,  I  have  at  least 
fulfilled  her  wish. 

I  reached  the  seat  in  my  balcony  five  minutes 
before  the  mass  broke  past  the  police  horses,  leaning 
their  flanks  full  weight  against  people,  to  form  a  dead- 
lock of  terrible  pressure  with  the  mass  moving  up 
Whitehall  toward  the  Square.  There  were  others 
upon  the  balcony,  sharing  the  common  danger  of  the 
ancient  structure  falling  down  upon  the  struggling 
throng  below  and  putting  them  out  of  their  agony 
with  despatch.  Still  others  of  us  were  crowded  into 
the  window,  three  seats  to  a  sill,  and  still  more  on 
a  tier  of  seats  back  in  the  room  commanding  a  limited 
view  of  the  sidewalk  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street. 
They  were  all  uncomfortable  enough  to  be  chatty  and 
gay,  but  they  were  not  Londoners,  and  they  showed 
a  pained  disinclination  to  bounce  into  a  conversation 
with  me.  However,  I  could  but  exclaim  over  the 
terrible  pack  beneath  us.  In  the  fear  of  death,  even 
though  it  were  not  our  death,  I  thought  we  might 
speak  without  exchanging  cards. 

While  not  Londoners  they  knew  their  London 
crowds  and  shook  their  heads  over  my  expectation  of 
mangled  bodies.      ''Panic?     No  fear!     They'll  just 

340 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

surge,"  they  said,  cheerfully,  and  so  the  people  did — 
surged  like  the  tide — with  no  cry  of  distress,  no  hys- 
teria, no  mad  elbowing  or  curses.  Such  a  patient 
people  eager  to  be  happy! 

I  have  an  English  seamstress  over  here  whose  words 
I  hang  upon,  for  they  are  pearls  of  wisdom.  She 
tells  me  that  the  great  fault  with  her  compatriots 
is  that  they  dislike  work.  They  have  never  been 
taught  to  feel  that  labor  is  beautiful— it  once  was 
exacted  from  them  practically  under  the  lash,  and 
from  habit  they  still  labor  grudgingly.  For  that  rea- 
son, said  my  seamstress,  when  they  take  their  holiday, 
no  matter  how  uncomfortable  an  outing  it  may 
develop  into,  they  will  not  ''grouse."  At  least,  they 
are  not  at  their  hated  jobs — they  went  out  to  enjoy 
themselves  and,  by  the  great  horned  spoon,  they 
will  enjoy  themselves.  I  should  prefer  the  depths 
of  a  coal-mine  and  the  pay  that  goes  with  it  to  a  full 
day's  burial  on  a  city  sidewalk  without  remuneration, 
but  the  English  don't,  and  that's  all  there  is  about  it. 

It  made  us  sad — that  is,  it  made  me  sad  and  my 
companions  from  the  provinces  slightly  disturbed 
(although  they  may  have  felt  worse  than  I  did,  but 
kept  it  bottled  up)  to  see  people  dropping  from  ex- 
haustion. Almost  a  hundred  directly  beneath  us 
received  the  splendid,  patient  attendance  of  those 
men  in  black  uniforms  known  as  the  Order  of  St. 
John  of  Jerusalem — those  ancient  Hospitallers  of  the 
Temple,  and  now  the  Red  Cross  of  the  city.  As  far 
as  the  eye  could  reach  the  physically  unfit  lay  along 
in  the  gutters  on  either  side  the  street  or  were  heaped 
upon  the  islands  in  the  middle  of  Whitehall.  The  pack 
was  too  great  to  take  them  to  the  ambulances  in  the 
side-streets,  so  there  they  stayed,  some  feebly  strug- 

341 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

gling  up,  some  wanly  lying  with  faces  turned  toward 
the  pageant  as  it  came  along. 

While  I  am  no  skeptic,  it  may  have  occurred  to  a^ 
few  clever  ones  that  fainting  had  its  good  points. 
One  was  then  pulled  out  from  the  depths  and  could 
lie,  like  a  Roman  at  the  Revels,  and  watch  the  whole 
show.  One  fat  girl  went  off  into  a  fresh  swoon  every 
time  an  effort  was  made  to  heave  her  off  the  canvas 
litter,  always  reviving  in  time  to  wig-wag  to  the  gen- 
erals passing  at  the  head  of  their  columns. 

Many  of  these  fainting  ones  were  little  boys  and 
girls  and  I  was  the  more  sad,  for  this  collapse  spoke 
mutely  of  the  underfeeding  of  the  last  four  years. 
It  was  bitter  that  the  sacrifices  of  those  years  should 
'' throw-back"  in  this  fashion  on  the  day  that  stood 
as  a  reward  for  their  long  denials.  But  so  it  was, 
and  the  marching  troops,  on  viewing  these  little  spent 
bodies  along  the  line  of  march,  must  have  found  in 
them  a  faint  replica  of  grimmer  fields  of  struggle. 

It  was  in  employing  my  periscope  in  an  effort  to 
count  the  prostrate  ones  far  up  by  the  square  that  I 
discovered  the  littlest  girl,  not  lying  in  the  gutter, 
for  my  periscope  refused  to  show  me  anything  I 
sought,  but  sitting  on  the  top  of  a  motor-car  that  had 
broken  down  in  a  very  convenient  place  early  in  the 
day  when  traffic  had  not  yet  ceased,  probably  through 
the  connivance  of  the  owner.  I  recognized  her  purple 
cap  and  cape,  and  I  felt,  although  the  mirror  did 
not  reproduce  it,  her  tremendous  satisfaction  with  a 
religion  that  had  secured  her  this  free  seat.  The 
tail-end  of  the  processio^n  would  have  disappeared 
through  the  Admiralty  Arch  well  before  the  matinee, 
and  she  would  be  smugly  putting  on  her  grease-paint 
as  I  would  still  be  strugghng  toward  the  theater. 

342 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

This  was  the  first  time  I  had  thought  of  grease- 
paint as  part  of  the  day's  curriculum,  and  the  idea 
was  most  repugnant.  It  was  no  day  for  mummery. 
I  would  rather  be  one  of  those  lying  in  the  gutter, 
crying,  ''We  who  are  about  to  die,  salute  thee!" 
Still,  I  did  not  absolutely  rebel;  there  was  no  flag  of 
anarchy  waving  about  me  as  yet,  only  my  two  small 
American  ones,  the  sticks  of  which  had  prodded  the 
stuffing  out  of  the  eggs  in  my  struggles  in  the  street. 
I  am  not  a  flag-waver  by  instinct,  but  I  had  carried 
the  colors  so  that  they  would  give  me  courage  to 
"holler."  It  is  so  much  easier  to  cheer  when  some- 
thing is  in  your  hands — and  I  was  going  to  cheer  even 
if  I  had  no  voice  for  the  matinee. 

Yet  I  was  in  a  highly  nervous  state  for  fear  that  the 
public  was  not  going  to — that  they  would  not,  I 
should  say — cheer  my  general  and  my  troops.  As 
the  countries  marched  alphabetically,  our  nation 
would  come  first,  and  perhaps  the  people  would  not 
be  warmed  up  to  huzzas.  I  peeped  sideways  at 
my  provincial  companions.  I  longed  to  make  a  bar- 
gain with  them,  to  say,  ''I'll  cheer  your  general  if 
you'll  cheer  mine."  But  I  hadn't  the  courage — they 
would  have  thought  me  "quaint."  Besides,  if  they 
were  readers  of  character  they  would  know  that  a 
woman  emotional  enough  to  keep  dabbing  her  eyes 
because  the  decorations  were  so  beautiful  would  cheer 
everybody,  anyway. 

I  was  still  agonizing  over  the  possibility  of  our 
troops  not  making  a  hit  when  a  bee  buzzed  in  the  ear 
that  was  trained  in  the  direction  of  the  Houses  of 
Parliament.  I  flapped  at  it,  but  as  I  flapped  the  buzz 
grew  stronger.  There  was  a  strange  little  murmur 
in  the  street,  too,  low  and  yet  above  the  songs  and 

•  23  343 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

the  shoutings.  It  rippled  along  to  the  square  and 
there  grew  into  a  field  of  sound.  There  was  such  a 
concerted  movement  of  the  masses,  such  a  turning 
of  the  cheek  down  Whitehall,  that  the  color  of  the 
crowds  took  on  a  different  tone ;  there  was  more  white 
in  it.  Before  we  had  seen  only  the  tops  of  their  hats. 
And  now  little  boys  and  girls  buried  in  the  crowds  for 
hours  were  being  disinterred  and  lifted  up  on  fathers' 
shoulders,  and  the  swooners  began  to  take  notice. 
The  buzz  grew  louder,  but  I  would  not  flap  it  away, 
for  I  knew  now  that  it  was  not  a  buzz — it  was  a 
voice.  The  one  great  voice  of  the  world.  Oh,  thrill- 
ing vox  populi!  It  was  the  people — the  real  rulers  of 
destinies — not  those  tight  souls  sitting  on  the  balcony; 
they  will  never  be  rulers — it  was  the  ''plain  people" 
cheering  the  Americans. 

Big  Ben  must  have  been  chiming  twelve,  but  for 
once  no  one  heard  it,  as  up  Whitehall,  out  of  the 
magnificent  shadow  of  the  clock-tower  came  a  charger. 
It  was  not  a  well-behaved  one,  a  charger  going  side- 
ways, but  with  a  big  man  riding  it  who  had  no  concern 
with  its  curvetings.  A  big  man  with  a  spray  of 
roses  on  his  saddle  pommel  nodding  to  the  hurrah- 
ing people,  not  saluting — less  formal — smiling  easily, 
confident,  yet  modest,  as  though  to  say,  ''We're  only 
the  beginning — wait."  Or  he  may  have  been  think- 
ing, for  Pershing  has  humor,  "What  does  the  Bible 
say? — the  last  shall  be  first?"  And  then  our  men 
came  along  and  I  don't  know  whether  I  was  yelling 
all  the  time,  or  the  crowd  was,  or  both  of  us  together. 
I  alone  upon  our  balcony  cheered  the  Americans,  that 
I  know,  but  it  made  no  difference,  there  was  plenty 
of  noise — enough  even  for  an  American — from  the 
plain  people  below.    Yet  when  our  troops  halted  for 

344 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

their  rest  my  companions  threw  them  cigarettes  and 
fruit,  and  every  one  laughed  the  way  those  huge  fel- 
lows, all  of  whom  had  played  baseball  from  the  day 
they  were  out  of  skirts,  simply  stuck  out  their  arms 
and  caught  everything  without  moving  their  bodies. 

It  was  while  I  was  waving  my  flags  and  hurrahing 
that  I  said,  inside  of  me — my  vocal  cords  being 
otherwise  employed:  "Why,  this  is  the  happiest 
moment  of  my  life — of  my  whole  life!  And  yet  I'm 
not  in  the  procession.  I'm  just  watching  it — just  a 
bystander,"  and  then:  ''Of  course,  that's  it.  Some- 
body must  be  a  bystander  or  there  wouldn't  be  any 
procession  passing  by.  So,  after  all,  you're  part  of  it 
— part  of  the  great  scheme."  At  this  I  had  to  dab 
my  eyes  again  before  I  could  go  on  gratefully  com- 
muning: ''And  how  lovely  that  this  should  come  to 
me  now — -this  understanding!  Not  pop  at  me  when 
I  was  younger,  when  standing  on  the  sidewalk  would 
have  meant  a  failure.  How  lovely  that  this  should 
come  to  me  now,  when  I  haven't  so  many  other 
pleasant  things  to  think  about!" 

This  is  all  written  too  easily.  It  should  not  be 
clamped  down  into  words  at  all.  For  I  felt  that  my 
heart  was  being  carried  on  butterfly  wings,  high, 
high  up.  My  heart  was  different  things.  It  was  a 
balloon,  too — a  rosy  one — so  big  that  I  feared  that 
by  one  extra  breath  of  laughing-gas  it  would  float 
away  altogether  and  drag  me  out  of  my  expensive 
camp-stool.  I  groped  about  for  an  anchor,  for  some 
material  thought  to  keep  me  down  to  earth.  I  sup- 
pose it  was  in  searching  for  the  material  thought 
that  I  thought  again  of  my  miserable  duty  for  the 
afternoon.  I  could  now  understand  perfectly  why 
the  British  hated  work. 

345 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

I  looked  at  Big  Ben.  It  was  getting  on.  Although 
I  would  not  have  to  cross  the  line  of  march,  it  would 
take  an  hour  of  swaying  and  smiling  and  possibly- 
fainting  to  make  my  way  to  the  side-street  forty 
feet  away,  and  from  there  twist  back  to  my  work. 
A  sneer  spoiled  one  of  my  best  cheers  at  the  word 
''work."  It  made  me  sick.  The  procession  was  not 
half  over  and  I  was  planning  how  I  could  get  out 
and  off  to  my  contemptible  occupation.  (It  was 
''contemptible  occupation"  by  this  time.)  I  couldn't 
even  celebrate  my  great  discovery  of  the  joy  accruing 
from  being  at  once  on  life's  sidewalk  and  part  of  life's 
pageant  without  having  to  watch  the  clock. 

Yet  I  must  celebrate  it  in  some  unusual  fashion — 
this  was  the  day  of  days.  I  looked  up  toward  the 
littlest  girl  for  help.  I  applied  the  periscope.  She 
was  gone.  She,  a  child  of  the  theater,  was  instinctively 
following  in  the  beaten  path.  But  this  was  no  day 
for  beaten  paths,  and  if  that  was  so —  I  caught  my 
breath  between  the  automatic  cheers  I  was  uttering. 
If  this  hour  really  was  greater  than  my  work,  now  was 
the  time  to  prove  it.  I  stopped  cheering.  I  would 
celebrate  it  as  only  an  actress  could  who  has  not 
missed  a  performance  in  her  twenty-five  years'  ex- 
perience. I  spoke  down  to  the  crowds.  "I  will  not 
go  to  the  matinee!"  I  said. 

Oh,  it  is  nothing  to  you,  you  readers,  unless  you 

have  gathered  from  these  pages  the  scandalousness  of 

such  a  proceeding,  the  daring  of  it!    From  now  on, 

as  I  walk  down  Broadway,  they  will  say,  "There  goes 

the  woman  who  wouldn't  go  to  the  matinee."  "111?" 

"No!   Went  to  the  parade!"  I  was  fearless,  and  talked 

to  myself,  fiercely.     "Let  'em  shut  up — I  don't  care» 

Do  'em  good.    A  matinee  on  Victory  Day!" 

346 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

I  had  now  blown  my  nose  and  cheered  up — and 
on — and  had  my  second  wind  for  Foch  and  Haig. 
Foch,  unlike  our  idea  of  a  Frenchman,  was  not 
demonstrative,  but  the  people  were.  His  horse  and 
baton  seemed  to  be  in  his  way,  and  he  may  have 
been  reserving  himself  for  his  superb  gesture  before 
the  king,  when  he  raised  his  baton  high  above  his 
head,  bringing  it  down  again  with  a  sweep  of  triumph. 
Yet  this  surely  was  too  magnificent  to  have  been 
anything  but  impromptu.  Haig  sat  his  horse  well 
and  saluted  correctly,  as  a  Briton  should,  and  with 
his  passing  I  knew  what  huzzas  really  were.  Beatty 
came  on  foot.  It  seems  strange  that  these  men  of 
the  na\'y,  who  stand  in  the  high  places  on  their  ships, 
have  no  method  of  conveyance  on  dry  land  which  fitly 
expresses  the  dignity  of  their  calling.  It  is  as  though 
their  real  place  was  not  the  brown  earth,  but  the 
broad  waters. 

We  had  voices  for  them  all.  I  have  never  known 
a  crowd  before  not  show  signs  of  flagging,  but  at 
every  strange  uniform  there  was  a  fresh  outburst 
along  the  eight-mile  line  of  march.  Yes,  and  when  the 
provincial  party  on  the  balcony  vented  themselves 
in  a  fury  of,  "Good  old  Sussex,"  or  "Good  old  Sur- 
rey," as  a  contingent  from  the  regiment  of  the  shires 
passed  by,  they  could  not  keep  their  plaudits  at  all 
select.  I  joined  in,  too,  for  I  was  part  of  that  pro- 
cession, lock,  stock,  and  barrel.  I  looked  no  more  at 
Big  Ben,  save  once  when  I  gave  my  companions  a 
last  chance  to  talk  to  me.  "It's  two-fifteen,"  I  said, 
defiantly,  to  them.  "The  orchestra's  gone  in!"  But 
they  thought  me  no  madder  than  heretofore,  one  of 
them  very  amiably  murmuring,  "Quite!" 

Yet,  as  I  made  my  way  weakly  home  in  the  late 

347 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

afternoon,  I  knew  that  I  should  be  ready  to  return 
to  my  fold  at  night.  It  has  its  circumscribed  advan- 
tages. That  night  I  should  be  marching  to  and  fro 
upon  the  stage  and  others  would  be  sitting  in  expensive 
seats,  if  not  actually  cheering,  at  least  not  hissing  me. 
And  while  that  world  is  a  mimic  one  in  which  I  am 
ever  so  mild  a  marching  warrior,  it  is  a  lucky  gray- 
haired  woman  who  can  stand  on  the  sidewalk  and 
march  in  the  procession.  Lucky  is  she,  too,  who  at 
the  ebb  of  life  can  be  a  part  of  lovers'  lives  and  of 
adventures  and  of  moons  that  are  not  real,  since  the 
realities  are  not  for  her,  for  drama  stirs  safely  the 
emotions,  like  reflections  in  a  mirror  which  are  dissi- 
pated when  the  glass  is  shifted. 

Yes,  I  must  confess,  even  in  the  theater  it  is  pleasant 
to  have  lovers  about— if  only  to  reflect  how  much 
better  you  could  do  the  scene  yourself  if  you  were 
younger.  But  even  when  you  are  younger  you  could 
not  play  the  scene  as  you  could  have  played  it  in  a 
real  garden  under  a  real  moon,  no  matter  how  bad 
an  actor  the  real  lover  would  be.  "Now,  our  leading 
man,  for  instance — "  In  this  way  my  mind  was 
working  as  I  went  about  full  of  contentment,  and  years, 
and  stuffed  eggs,  and  flags.  I  would  have  liked  to 
have  given  the  leading  man  a  pointer  or  two  for  the 
sake  of  whatever  girl  he  would  select  to  be  his  very 
best.  A  good  man,  a  very  good  one,  I  decided,  but 
a  little  angular  in  his  love-making.  A  little  too  cor- 
rect— needed  limbering  up. 

At  this  point  of  my  musing  I  was  moving,  with  peri- 
scope, toward  Hyde  Park  that  I  might  hear  the  massed 
bands  and  the  ten  thousand  voices.  But,  following 
the  order  of  the  day,  there  were  other  masses  than 
bands,  and  I  had  no  more  made  the  refuge  in  Park 

348 


AN  AMERICAN'S  LONDON 

Lane  by  the  fountain  than  word  went  round  that  the 
royalties  were  coming.  The  refuge  was  not  crowded, . 
but  heads  were  taller  than  mine  and  again  I  set  my 
periscope,  this  time  to  catch  a  king.  And  again  the 
wilful  periscope  showed  me  strange  sights — unfolded 
them,  as  I  swept  the  crowded  pavement  opposite  in 
my  effort  to  get  a  focus — as  a  series  of  taunting  re- 
plies to  one  who  had  come  to  England  to  escape  the 
slings  and  arrows  of  an  outrageous  Cupid.  'Arry 
walked  with  'Arriet — ^arms  entwined;  soldiers  and 
their  girls — arms  entwined;  provincials  and  their  nice 
young  ladies — arms  entwined;  all  England — arms  en- 
twined. All  England  and  some  foreigners,  and  among 
them — the  periscope  does  not  lie — among  them — - 
arms  entwined — -Beechey  and  the  leading  man.  The 
leading  man,  all  limbered  up,  with  Victory  in  his  eye. 
The  royalties  passed,  but  I  did  not  see  them.  My 
knees  had  given  way  and  I  was  sitting  on  the  stone 
edge  of  the  horse-trough — on  and  in  it.  The  royalties 
passed,  and  those  on  the  refuge,  and  I  arose  from  the 
horse-trough — but,  finding  my  coattails  dripping,  I 
turned  to  wring  them  in  the  granite  bowl.  Go  see  it 
some  day,  will  you? — in  Park  Lane  by  the  fountain. 
Go  read  upon  it  the  inscription  which  met  the  eye  of 
one  who'd  gone  to  London  to  be  comforted  with 
apples.  Read  it,  and  be  glad — as  I  was — that  we 
couldn't  ever,  ever  get  away  from  what  I  once  had 
fled.  For  the  inscription  runs,  the  very  horse-trough 
cries : 

"new  days,  new  ways  pass  by.    love  stays" 

THE    END 


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